#the four heralds au

[britcision]

Y’know it’s been kinda funny looking at people making Dungeon Meshi OCs

Because my last new fandom before this one was Dragon Age

And my Inquisitor Cadash in our Four Heralds AU is just if Chilchuck and Senshi had a kid;

Middle aged and cranky

Cooks with gusto

Created the herald union

Can will and has adopted the other three heralds and half the companions

Inveterate hater (especially of Cullen)

Ryoko Kui has my goddamn number is what I’m saying here

(Our Lavellan is even a broken little elf with teleportation issues, but his are accidental. Because he would not goddamn stop rogue-zipping around in fights and ending up in all the wrong places no matter what buttons were pushed

Mithrun had me at hello)

Also Laios and Cullen would be actual besties and neither would understand shit the other said EVER but that’s fine

[yameoto]

angel in your pocket quinn fabray.

warnings; sub!quinn, angel!reader. not hate-fucking. irritated-fucking. masturbation (in the same room as an angel), voyeurism because God Is Always Watching, motel room sex. spn!au quinn wc; 2k.

Quinn hasn’t had alone time in what feels like a fucking millenia. In the grand scheme of things, out of all that she’s sacrificed for the hunting life; her innocence, childhood, a normal, healthy relationship with literally any human being—negligible, compared to the great and terrible woe of having absolutely zero time to masturbate.

Like, seriously. Almost zilch. Hell, nowadays she’ll flop back to bed after a hunt and pass out from exhaustion. Not even enough time to sneak in an innocent tryst against her pillow.

So, of course—with the rare occasion of her baby sister and her being (forcibly) split up for a hunt, for once; and Quinn having her first free day in—well, years (also, forcibly)—when she cranks the blinds down, sinks onto the motel room mattress, bedsprings creaking underneath her—she’s prepared for the most blissful, mind-numbing, apex-of-Nirvana type of relaxation. Involving; a bolt-locked door, three fingers, and a whole lot of time.

Except, things can never go Quinn’s way. Because just when she’s sufficiently worked herself up enough to sport a damp spot, hips rocking upwards as the barest brush of her fingers catches the hem of her underwear—there’s a sudden, blinding crack of light—the familiar crackle of ozone; and such heralds her favourite (derisive) and only guardian angel standing over her bed. 

“What in the ever living fuck?” Quinn hisses, scrabbling to fling the blankets over herself. “What the hell is wrong with you?” (You’d think, around an angel, Quinn would tone down the swearing. Except being raised by a gunslinging, monster-smoking preacherman meant Quinn veers from the Lord’s name like it's red-hot iron. Cussing was free-game, though. Swear words are made-up; God isn’t.)

You scrunch your nose, wings outstretched, tips brushing the motel room’s popcorn ceiling. You sniff the air. Heady. Thick with the scent of Quinn’s arousal. 

“It reeks.” 

Quinn prays you get asbestos in your feathers. 

“Were you indecent?” In your stupid angel get-up, feathery wings and all, the inquisitive tilt of your head makes you look like an oversized bird. A quizzical owl. She’s also just being mean in her head on purpose because 1. She knows you can hear this cute little introspection, if you can be bothered listening. (No, she’s not bitter that you’ve been ignoring her prayers for weeks), 2. She also knows you’re just fucking with her, because your lips are quirking upwards, and Oh, hoot-fucking-hoot. “Shouldn’t you tell me?” Quinn scowls, yanking her top over her head as she grumbles. You’ve breezed right on to the topic of the coming rapture. Lovely.

“Lilith. Her arrival cometh in four days. You and your sister must cross state lines by then.”

“Okay.” Quinn is only half-listening. She’s far too preoccupied with the red-hot pulse still throbbing at her crotch. Her briefs cling, damp against her skin. Sticky. Underneath the blankets, she squeezes her thighs together. Shit. Shiiiit. It gives her a brief reprieve, but it’s still not enough.

“—and if you do not give the angels an answer soon, they will keep coming. Michael—”

“It’ll be a cold day in Hell before I ever say yes to that fucker. You hear me?” She growls as her fingers run over the sodden fabric of her underwear, lashes fluttering as she skims up her waistband—because the reminder that she is, apparently, destined to be a hollow shell housing an archangel to shank the devil (housing her baby sister) is not enough to kill the last lingerings of her good mood. 

“I hear the Ninth Circle is unpleasantly frigid.” Quinn snorts. “You are such a smartass.” She circles her fingers, ever-so-slightly, against the thin barrier that just barely separates the ache in her soul from sweet, sweet relief. You are still, depressingly, there, and rambling on about scriptures and duties and blah, blah blah. She’d memorised all of that shit when she was three. Burned into the back of her skull. Experimentally, she applies a bit of pressure, just to ease herself. Quinn swallows, hard. 

“You’re not listening to me.” There’s that pretty little frown. 

“No, m’totally listening.” Quinn bucks her hips upwards, and her clit bumps against the ridges of her fly. She almost moans out loud. “I’m just saying no.” Maybe if she rocks her hips it’ll get a little friction righttt—ah, yeah. There’s the spot. “You’re aroused.” 

Whatever snarky quip Quinn was about to say wilts on her tongue. She pauses her movements, of which was hooking her index down to shimmy her briefs down her thighs, to glower—cheeks puffing out to exhale a frustrated huff. “Yeah, well, you picked a pretty shitty time, if you asked me.”

You sigh. “The dawn of the apocalypse will not wait for you to finish masturbating, Quinn.” 

Then, promptly and unceremoniously, you rip the blanket off of her. She is ashamed to say, she squeals. “Wh— hey!” Cold air rushes quick enough to shiver, band of her briefs rolled just enough that her cunt is exposed, and a current runs down her spine at the way your gaze falls, honing in on it.

Instinctively, Quinn goes to wrench the covers back over, of course, but attempting to tear the scratchy thing out from your hands is like trying to move a literal mountain. It’s also, long-forgotten in the swift way  you glide forwards, smoothly sliding to your knees and clasping strong (and somehow, gentle) hands at her knees and nosing between her legs and—

“Um. What’re you doing?” The words spill out in a rush, body tense—alarm bells ringing, because in the brief time she’s known you, Quinn has discovered she doesn’t quite know as much about angels as she thought she did—or as Father had told her— but she certainly didn’t think angels were in the business of peering up at her with those innocuous, unblinking doe-eyes of yours, through those stupidly lush lashes. Nor prying her thighs apart and swiping a thumb over the sticky residue left behind with a low, rumbling hum and shit. When did she get that wet?

“You’re not focusing. You must focus. This is the most efficient solution.”

“Fucking me is the most efficient solution?” Quinn gapes, and if her voice cracks and comes out an entire register higher, that’s her business. “That’s—you’re shameless!”

“I’m shameless? An Angel of the Lord visits upon you, urges you of your role in the Holy Scriptures, and you begin pleasuring yourself.”

Okay, when you put it like that, Quinn doesn’t have much ground. 

“I was finishing,” She blusters, cheeks flaming She’s arguing for the sake of arguing—with all the petulance she can muster, because otherwise, she doesn’t know what is an appropriate reaction to an angel’s tongue flicking up your skin, nose nudging between the crook of your warm, wet folds and inner thigh. 

Her breathing grows ragged. Fuck, fuck— fuck. “It’s not my fault you come at the worst time ever—” She’s aware she sounds like a bratty teenage girl, but you also lecture her with an ego the size of a small city, and when your tongue finally meets the sopping heat of her cunt, she makes a sound the furthest thing from holy. “Can—fuck—a girl not knock?”

“The Lord doesn’t knock.” You retort plainly, flat of your tongue dragging upwards. Quinn speaks through gritted teeth, fists curling. 

“‘Behold—I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice and—oh, fuck..—open the door, I will come into him—”

You stop in your tracks, head lifting. Any disappointment at the way your tongue slips out from her folds is quelled by the sizable strip of satisfaction unfurling in her gut. Seeing you; stare incredulous, mouth still open. For once, you’re the one taken off-guard. 

“Did you just.. quote scripture at me?” A draught sweeps in the room, and your fingers twitch inside of her as if considering whether to curl them to the knuckle or jerk yourself out entirely or reach up her ribs and perhaps yank her heart out from the inside. You do none of those things, and instead settle on gaping in utter disbelief. Quinn grins. 

“Revelations; chapter three, verse twenty, baby.” Quinn’s not her Daddy’s girl for nothing. 

“..It was an euphemism.” You grumble, annoyed, and if Quinn didn’t know any better—embarrassed—though from here, she can only see the flushed tips of your ears. Tne hand gripping her thigh tightens, a pressure so negligible Quinn might think she’d imagined if—if it weren’t for the fact, that, out of fucking nowhere, your thumb presses hard against the swollen bud of her clit. 

She cries out, hips jolting up off the mattress, and you don’t let her come back down–one hand supporting her entire bodyweight, as her legs quake. She scrabbles for purchase, and finds your hair a suitable levy.

“Ah—what the—fuck—” “And you call me the smartass,” You grunt, and another finger snakes in underneath the others, with a squelch so obscene Quinn almost blushes, though she only whines with approval instead. You thrust, deeper. “If you had talked back in such a way in B.C, I would’ve ripped out your tongue.” 

Score. Quinn totally knew she got you all hot and bothered. Despite it all, she can’t stop the smirk worming its way on her lips. You can’t win against a celestial being shaped by God—but you can savour the little victories. 

You’re panting, she can feel it—each puff of your breath—coming hot along her thighs and against her ella’s and into her cunt. Quinn is all at once hit with the dizzying thought that, that same breath has blown entire civilizations to dust—and right now—right now it’s being used to dirty-talk into her pussy. 

“It wasn’t even written in B.C, you sanctimonious—oh, fuck.” Apparently, you don’t appreciate her sense of humour, because you ravage her like you’re trying to carve out a space for Michael yourself with your teeth, fingers sliding in deep and pressing out against her walls, fighting against the resistance in their tight clenches—stretching out, as your tongue swirls over her clit. For a moment, her entire brain empties, and the tension—winding, winding, winding in a band she didn’t even know existed—snaps. Her hiss is strangled, nails curling into dank bedsheets and a white-hot flash has her thighs crunching together, slamming down against your head and all as she gasps at the feeling, like iron striking stone. It’s the most surreal thing she’s ever fucking experienced. She grasps, free hand fisting the back of your head, tightly, and she’s grinding out the sopping, slick folds of her pussy against your open mouth, legs coiled around your neck like a vice. 

In the bleary remnants of thoughts she has, she figures you can’t mind too much. Angels don’t need breath, after all. (The sexy heaves of your chest when you pant, splattered with demon blood or the spine-arching way you glide up her thighs is designed, specifically, to torture her, she thinks). 

It’s the quickest orgasm she’s ever had, in all whopping twenty-six years of her life.

Your chin come away glistening, a glassy sheen coating skin and trickling, down the holy, unblemished stretch of your neck to your clavicles. 

“..Wow.” She croaks.

Her eyes, unbidden, follow the bob of your throat. You swallow. An audible ah bursts through your lips, like you’ve just downed a bubbly pitcher of beer rather than her cum. Through the renewed pounding in her head and cunt, she hears a strangled whimper. She realises it’s her own, too late. 

She needs a beer, right about now. She watches, with hazy eyes, as you simply get up off the mattress and stray to the rickety table that hosts nothing but empty cans and spare ammunition. You pull out two chairs, opposite one another.

“..Not the cuddlin’ type, then?” She rasps, weakly. Damn you and your stupid feathers for looking so unruffled when you still have her juices dribbling down your throat. She’s overcome with inscrutable urge to wrench you back by the collar and lick her salt off your skin.

“Come. We must finish our talk.”

Quinn flops, her face buried into the pillow. Her eyes are heavy, lids dropping as she groans into cushion.

“..You’re not serious.”

“I did say, efficient."

[runariya]

Y(E)ARNED (JJK) • 1

pairing: alien!Jungkook x human seamstress!female reader genre: alien!AU, S2L, slow burn, angst rating: 18+, MDNI warnings: a lot of fluff, a little bit of lying, good natured 'manipulation', size difference, JK has tentacles, self-doubt, minor wound that needs to be stitched, mentions of bonding, doubt, again lying, kissing, smut (only superficial in this part), lmk if I forgot something pls word count: ~5.8k

a/n: part of the "Dice With Destiny" project by @thebtswritersclub and @creativepromptsforwriting | I just couldn't help but dice again 🫣 sry

a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

masterlist • 2

You think you might settle here, let your restless stitching hands finally find their rhythm on this planet where the air is soft and the light through the windows of your little shop lands like golden thread across the floor. It feels right, this place, Euphonis—a world you once stumbled upon like a loose button in a drawer, an afterthought, but now it glows in your mind like the warm thrum of a needle through fabric. The shop is everything you’d imagined and more, dressed in rustic charm, the old wood floor beneath your feet creaking like a whispered conversation, a relict of the lives it has seen, the weight of Seraphenti footsteps heavier than your own feathery steps. No need for a bell at the door, no chime to herald each customer; the groan of the boards will sing their entry for you, a music of its own.

You’ve been a seamstress for as long as your memory stretches, threading your way through worlds in search of something like home, always with the same soft hope in your chest, the same search for people who need your craft. Zyntis and its inhabitants had seemed promising once—their tails awkward in standardised clothing that never quite fit—but your style had no place there, and so the doors of that shop closed, the dream dissolving before it could begin. And then, by some strange luck—or maybe fate—, you found yourself here, among the Seraphentis, creatures of ethereal beauty, their four tentacles making clothes ill-fitting and frustrating, begging for someone with your hands, your skill to fix what never quite sat right on their otherworldly forms.

And now you're here, here with your thread and your scissors, ready to stitch together lives just a little better, one custom piece at a time, easing the small burdens of misfit garments, making life smoother—seamless, you think with a soft smile.

Late in the afternoon, the shop is quiet, only the rhythmic whirr of your sewing machine filling the small room, your small fingers guiding the fabric beneath the needle with every beat of your heart. You're working on a dress for yourself, something soft and simple to soothe the days behind and look forward to the days ahead. The fabric is delicate, like a promise, and you're so absorbed in its flow that you don't hear the front door until the floor itself betrays the presence of another—footsteps, nearly silent but for the familiar creak beneath their weight.

You stop, hands stilling the machine as you lift your gaze and stand up without much thought, and there—there stands a Seraphenti in the middle of your shop, framed by the light like something out of a dream. Your breathing comes to a sudden stop, not for the first time, at the sheer beauty of these beings, but this one—this one is something else entirely. His face holds you, every line and curve more perfect than any sculpture, his dark eyes deep as midnight, lashes long and thick like the edge of a brush dipped in ink. His lips, rosy and gleaming, part slightly when he sees you—when he realises you are not what he expected, a human, let alone one as small as you, much shorter than any Seraphenti, standing before him in a tailor's shop meant for his species.

You feel his surprise, she him staring unsure at you, but you also feel his warmth, his curiosity. The corners of your eyes crinkle into a smile, the kind that stretches wide and genuine, your teeth flashing in welcome as you call out to him with your soft, cheery voice, "Hello, welcome! What can I do for you?"

It’s as if your words break a spell. He smiles back—radiant, confident in a way that catches you off guard for a second, though there’s a softness in his eyes that makes you feel at ease. He steps forward, his tall build filling the room, and you have to tilt your head back so far that you almost laugh from the sheer height of him.

"Hi," he says with a dialect, his voice rich and warm. "I was hoping to have my shirt customised… if that's possible?"

"Of course!" You can't help the excitement in your voice—he’s your first customer here on Euphonis, and that alone makes you practically beam. You gesture towards the small podium you’ve had specially made for your size, a donut-shaped stand meant to let you reach your taller clients with ease. „If you’d come with me, I just need to take your measurements."

He follows you, but pauses when his right foot lands on the podium, eyeing the contraption with a look of mild confusion before you giggle and explain, "Oh, the donut’s for me, not you. Just step into the middle."

Realisation dawns across his handsome face, and a high-pitched laugh escapes him, shaking his broad shoulders. He looks down at you, and suddenly you both burst into uncontrollable laughter, cracking up like it’s the funniest thing in the world. You hold your stomach as your side begins to ache, tears prickling at your eyes as you try to compose yourself.

"I'm sorry," he manages between laughs, wiping away tears as well. "It's just… brilliant."

"No, no need to apologise!" You smile, cheeks aching from the shared moment. "It's fine, really."

You both manage to calm down long enough for him to step into the circle, and you climb onto the podium behind him. Despite the elevation, he towers over you still, and the two of you exchange a look in the mirror—your heads tilted in different directions as if caught in some ridiculous dance move. The sight is too much; you both burst into laughter again, leaning on each other to stay upright, wheezing without restraint.

When all the laughter finally runs out of your systems, he straightens, offering you a playful smirk. „You know, I’ve always been one of the taller ones."

"Really?" You quip, pretending to be shocked. "I never would have guessed."

His eyes light up, the sparkle of amusement never leaving as he says, "I'm Jungkook, by the way."

"I'm ___," you reply, meeting his gaze in the mirror once more. "Nice to meet you, Jungkook. Now, let’s get those measurements, shall we?"

You begin your work, tape in hand, as you move around him, tracing the lines of his strong frame, marvelling at the way his body seems to have been carved by some masterful sculptor. Each muscle is defined, even beneath the fabric of his shirt, and you focus hard to keep your hands steady, to keep from letting your admiration spill over into something too obvious. Every so often, you catch him watching you in the mirror, a soft smile playing at his lips, his dark eyes warm and knowing as if reading your mind, though he says nothing—just lets you work.

When you reach his back, the challenge becomes clear—his tentacles rise at your approach, like a loom adjusting its threads to some unseen hand. They stand tall and tense, alert and protective, sensing your presence but unsure whether to trust. You reach out slowly, letting the back of your hand hover near them, allowing them to ‚sniff‘ you, in a way. Slowly, reluctantly, they relax, draping back down, though they remain distant, uninterested in interacting with you. You can’t help but feel a small pang of disappointment—Seraphenti tentacles are usually more curious, more playful—but Jungkook’s seem reserved, almost dismissive.

Still, you carry on, finishing the measurements with care, even as a quiet sadness lingers in your thoughts. "We’re done," you say, the words soft as you both step off and out of the podium, heading towards a dresser that you use as a counter, and jot down the remaining notes.

Jungkook hands you his shirt from a small backpack you hadn’t noticed before. “When can I pick it up?”

“Three days?” you suggest, hoping to give it the time and attention it deserves.

“That works for me,” he says with a nod, and you scribble the pickup date on a small slip of paper, passing it to him along with a smile.

“Thank you, Jungkook,” you say, handing him the receipt. “See you in three days.”

“Thank you, too, ___,” he says, his voice softer now, a touch of warmth lacing his words as he leaves your shop.

And just like that, the door closes behind him, leaving you alone again in the soft light of the afternoon, your heart fluttering silently in your chest.

Three days after your first encounter, Jungkook returns to your shop. The wooden floors creak softly beneath his weight as he steps inside, and despite knowing he’s coming, the sight of him still sends a ripple through you, as if the world itself bends gently towards him. He’s all smiles and easy charm, his presence large enough to fill the room but never overwhelming. You hand him his shirt with a small sense of pride fluttering in your chest, neatly wrapped in tissue paper and a cute little sticker holding its edges. You’ve sewn every stitch with care, crafted every seam with precision, and when he leaves with a grateful smile and a wave, you feel light as air, like you’ve woven a thread of connection to a customer that might just hold.

But the next week, he’s back. You hear the familiar creak of the floorboards and turn to see him holding the same shirt, this time with an apologetic frown lining his beautiful face. There’s a tear where you made your customisation, a delicate seam pulled apart. You feel a knot of dread form in your stomach, tightening until it’s nothing but uncomfortable. Your hands tremble slightly as you take the shirt from him, running your fingers along the damaged thread. You apologise profusely, cheeks burning with embarrassment, and promise to fix it at no charge. He reassures you—says it’s not a big deal, that things like this happen—but you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve failed him.

You spend the next few hours painstakingly re-stitching the seam, checking it over and over to ensure it holds. It’s perfect when you hand it back, and Jungkook thanks you warmly, that familiar smile returning to his face as he leaves. Still, something gnaws at you, a quiet voice at the back of your mind whispering doubts into your ear.

Then he returns again.

And again.

Each time with the same shirt, each time with a small tear, a rip where you’ve sewn. Your heart sinks deeper with every visit, each one like a tiny unravelling of the confidence you’d worked so hard to build. You start to dread the sound of the floor creaking beneath his feet, the sight of that perfect face marked with apology. Your hands shake when you work now, the thread slipping from your grasp more often than it used to, and the needle seems to prick your skin more than it should, small beads of red appearing where your focus falters.

By the time he comes back for the seventh time in three months, the weight of it all becomes too much. The sight of him walking through the door feels like a final thread snapping, the tension that’s been building in your chest pulling so tight that it finally breaks in two. You’ve tried your best, given it everything, and still, you’re failing miserably—still, your work isn’t enough. You can feel the tears already welling in your eyes before you even greet him.

The door shuts behind him with that same familiar groan of wood against wood, and you’re already pulling the apron from your waist, the knot in your stomach so tight it hurts.

“Jungkook,” you say, your voice trembling despite your efforts to keep it steady. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

He pauses, his brow furrowing in concern as he takes a step closer, holding the shirt loose in his hand by his side. “What? ___, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head, the words coming out before you can stop them, tumbling over one another like loose yarn spilling from a spool. “I don’t know why it keeps happening. Every time I fix it, it just—breaks again. I don’t understand. I’ve never had this problem before. Maybe my work isn’t… maybe I’m not…” You trail off, tears slipping down your cheeks now, your hands shaking as you press them to your face, trying to hide the wave of emotion washing over you. “Maybe I’m just not good enough.”

Jungkook’s face falls, and suddenly he’s in front of you, his free hand hovering just above yours as if unsure whether he should touch you or not. “___, no, please don’t say that. It’s not—”

“I can’t keep doing this,” you continue as your hands fall limply to your sides, your voice breaking as you choke out the words. “Every time you come back, it feels like I’ve failed. I don’t know why the thread keeps breaking, why I can’t make it work. It’s like every time I stitch it together, something inside me frays even more, and I just… I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen in panic, and he quickly closes the distance between you, reaching out to gently take your miniature hand in his big one. His touch is warm, his fingers curling around yours with a softness that paralyses you momentarily. “No, no, it’s not you. ___, it’s not your work. Your stitching is perfect. It’s me—” He stops, inhaling deeply, his eyes darting around the shop for a moment as if he’s gathering the courage to say something. Then he lets out a burdened breath, looking back at you with a pained expression. “I did it. I—I damaged the shirt on purpose.”

You blink up at him, confusion furrowing your brow. “What?”

“I damaged it on purpose,” he repeats, his voice low and apologetic, like a child confessing a misdeed. “I—I just… I wanted to keep seeing you.”

You think you might faint, your mind struggling to process his words. “You… you tore the shirt… on purpose?”

Jungkook nods, his face and ears burning with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean for it to get this far. I just—after the first time, when I saw how careful you were, how much you cared, I… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And I didn’t know how else to see you again, so I—” He gestures helplessly to the shirt in his hand, offering it to you like if it were the culprit, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I kept damaging it. A little more each time, just so I’d have an excuse to come back.”

You stare up at him, unblinking, wondering if you imagined his confidence or not. But still, there are equal parts disbelief and something else that settles within you—something that feels strangely like relief, like the loosening of a knot that’s been pulling tight for months. The silence between you stretches, Jungkook’s nerves flaring, as your mind is still trying to catch up with everything he’s just said.

“Why?” you finally manage to ask, your voice small, barely more than a whisper.

Jungkook meets your eyes, his expression softening as he takes a deep breath. “Because… I like you,” he admits, the words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting too long to be spoken. “I liked you from the moment I walked in here the first time. I didn’t know how to ask you out. I was afraid you wouldn’t feel the same, or that you’d think I was ridiculous, so I—well, I made up reasons to keep coming back. To keep seeing you. But it’s not because you’re not good at your job—you’re amazing at it,___. It’s because I didn’t want to stop seeing you.”

His confession washes over you like a warm shower after a long exhausting day, the self-doubt that had been festering inside you slowly dissolving under the gentle flutter of his words. You take a breath, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks as you search his face, looking for any sign that this might be some kind of joke or misunderstanding—but all you see is sincerity, and a nervous kind of hope.

“I…” You falter, still trying to wrap your mind around everything, but there’s a warmth blooming in your chest now, a quiet happiness that wasn’t there since Jungkook came back with the damaged shirt. You look down at your hands, still held gently in his, and let out a small, breathless laugh. “You tore your shirt… just to see me?”

Jungkook nods, his lips curving into a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Pretty stupid, right?”

A laugh escapes you, soft but genuine, the tension in your chest finally releasing. “Maybe a little,” you admit, looking up at him with a small, flirty smile of your own. “But… kind of sweet, too.”

His eyes brighten at that, relief flooding his expression as he squeezes your hands gently. “I’m sorry, though. I should’ve just… told you. I didn’t mean to make you doubt yourself.”

You shake your head, wiping away the last of your tears. “It’s okay. I mean, it wasn’t great thinking I was losing my touch, but… I guess I can’t be too upset. Not now that I know why.”

The two of you just stand there for a moment, the quiet between you no longer heavy with doubt. It’s strange, how quickly everything has shifted—how the world has gone from tipping over to balancing out again in a way you hadn’t expected. You take a breath, feeling a soft warmth settle in your chest as you meet Jungkook’s eyes once more.

“So… what now?” you take a breath to shush the shyness away, feeling a soft warmth settle in your chest as you meet Jungkook’s eyes once more.

Jungkook’s smile widens, his beautiful eyes crinkling at the corners as he gently tugs you a little closer. “Well, for starters, I’ll stop tearing my clothes on purpose,” he laughs quietly. “And maybe… we could try seeing each other outside of the shop? If you’re interested, that is.”

Your small heart skips a beat at his offer, and for the first time in months, the doubt inside you is nowhere to be found. You nod, a beaming smile on your face as you look up at him. “Yeah,” you say softly, “I think I’d like that.”

And just like that, you love story with Jungkook begins.

It's been months since you and Jungkook started seeing each other. Since that day he walked into your shop with his torn shirt, a thread of connection was spun between you, and what started as something delicate, tentative—like a stitch holding two fragile fabrics together—soon grew into something much stronger, blossoming from strangers to friends, to finally, without much fanfare, to a couple. You’ve gone from quiet cups of coffee shared in the mornings, the smell of roasted beans lacing the air between you, to nights spent curled up together on his sofa, the noise of the world fading away, leaving just the warmth and quiet intimacy of kisses. You’ve woven yourselves securely into each other’s lives, slowly, stitch by stitch, until the fabric of your days has become so interwoven that it’s hard to remember what life was like before the other.

There’s an ease to your relationship now, a rhythm you’ve both fallen into—domestic moments that feel as familiar and comforting as the soft creak of old wood beneath your feet in the shop. You cook together, hands brushing as you pass ingredients back and forth, Jungkook’s arms sneaking around your waist to tease you, pulling you closer just for the joy of feeling your body near his. You help each other with mundane tasks—he rearranges your bolts of fabric while you pin a garment to a mannequin, and in turn, you fold his laundry as he hums some quiet melody under his breath.

But not everything in this tapestry is perfect. There are pulls, tangles in the threads that remind you of the things you can’t control—the Seraphenti tentacles that constantly test for bonds, seeking to see if they align with others, exploring compatibility in ways that no words could, to merge together and never be able to part again. You’ve learned this since the beginning, understanding that his tentacles are almost their own beings, extensions of him yet with wills of their own. It’s natural for them, simply biology, to seek connections, to sniff and sense, and while you try to remind yourself that this is simply part of who he is, it doesn’t stop the sharp tug of fear when you see those tentacles reach for someone else, when they can’t seem to even recognise your presence. It made you feel a little nervous but had never truly been an issue in your relationship—until now.

You are standing in line at a fast food stall, a simple joy, the scent of fried food and warm spices lingering in the air, when everything you silently feared catches up with you, when the sky above is bruised with twilight, such as your soul soon will be. 

It starts as one of those easy moments that feels like the perfect stitch at the end of a long day—a moment of peace, of completion. But then, a female Seraphenti joins the line next to your stall, her silvery skin catching the fading light like a needle glinting in the sun.

You feel the change in Jungkook before you even see it. His body tenses, his movements growing hesitant. You look up and see his tentacles rising slowly, drawn towards hers as though pulled by an invisible thread. Your heart skips a beat, then begins to unravel, that quiet sense of peace fraying as you watch his tentacles move closer towards hers with instinctive curiosity. They hover between them like two stray threads, exploring, seeking a bond, and your chest tightens, painfully so. You try to swallow the bitter knot of jealousy that forms in your throat, but it just can’t go down, too raw, too sharp.

Jungkook’s face pales beside you, and you can see the silent dread and panic in his eyes. He glances at you briefly, as if to reassure you, but it does nothing when his eyes tell. You stand there, frozen, the world around you tilting again, as your eyes focus solely on the quiet, delicate dance of their tentacles. They move closer and closer, testing, curious. And the worst part is that this isn’t some conscious decision of his—this is simply biology, a force stronger than either of you. But knowing that doesn’t stop your heart from sinking like a stone in a bottomless well.

Time seems to stretch and elongate like a spool of thread unwinding too quickly, and the tension becomes unbearable for you. The female Seraphenti seems uninterested in anything but the exploration of the menu ahead, her tentacles floating lazily in the air, waiting for the connection to either solidify or break apart. Jungkook watches with a grieving expression, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, but then, with a sudden, vicious snap, his tentacles attack hers, which recoil with equal ferocity, as Jungkook lets a breath of pure relief escape his body.

There’s a soft gasp from the crowd around you, eyes drawn But it’s short-lived, as the gasps of the crowd around you is heard, Jungkook winces, and you notice immediately that one of his tentacles is curling back toward him, wounded. You’re at his side before you even think, your hands brushing against his arm as you whisper, “Let’s go home.”

He nods, his face still pale, and together you leave the stall behind, walking in absolute silence. His injured tentacle hangs limply, the fabric of your connection feeling threadbare, frayed by what just happened. You can feel it—both the physical pain in him and the emotional sting in yourself, the wound of knowing that his tentacles sought something with another, even if it didn’t take root.

Back at his flat, the quiet is almost suffocating you as Jungkook glances at you with eyes filled with relief, shame, and something you can’t quite place. He sinks onto the sofa, his movements defeated, and you immediately fetch the small first aid kit from his bathroom. And still, Jungkook only watches you in silence as you kneel beside him, your hands gentle as you begin to clean the small cut on his tentacle. There’s a strange sort of comfort in this—tending to him, mending the damage like patching a torn garment. But underneath it all, there’s a sadness that you can’t shake, something threatening to break everything fully.

You move carefully, your fingers working with the same precision you use when sewing—steady, practised, almost automatic. His tentacles, usually so independent, seem to allow your touch this time, curling slightly but not retreating. You feel their warmth under your fingers, the living pulse of them, and for the first time, they seem to recognise your presence not as something to ignore or push away, but as something to co-exist, if only just.

As you prepare the needle to stitch the small tear, you try to lighten the mood, though the weight of earlier still hangs between you both. You glance up at him with a faint smile and joke, “I’m sorry I’m missing the nurse outfit. Would’ve made this whole thing more convincing, don’t you think?”

Jungkook looks down at you, his confusion evident. “A nurse outfit?”

You laugh softly, though the sound is fragile like your nerves, thin like thread worn from overuse. “Yeah, you know. Nurses—like the assistants to doctors. They take care of people when they’re hurt. Stitch them up, give them medicine, that sort of thing.”

He frowns slightly, thinking it over. “Like a healer’s apprentice?”

You nod, threading the needle carefully, the familiar rhythm of sewing calming your nerves slightly. “Sort of. They don’t do the magic or the rituals, but they do everything else. They’re the ones who actually keep people alive most of the time.”

Jungkook’s lips twitch into a small smile, though there’s still a lingering sadness in his eyes. “You’d make a good nurse,” he says quietly. “Or a healer’s apprentice.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “I’ll stick to tailoring for now. But thanks.”

The silence that follows again is filled with unsaid words and emotions. You finish stitching the wound, tying off the thread with careful fingers, but as you do, the lingering ache in your chest only grows sharper, the tentacles again retreating from you in an instant. You place the needle aside and sit back on your heels, exhaling slowly as you try to steady yourself.

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook whispers suddenly, his voice full of sorrow. “I hate that this happened. I hate that you had to see it.”

You glance up at him, and the raw sincerity in his eyes makes your heart twist painfully. “It’s not your fault,” you whisper back, afraid that if you speak any louder, it might shatter you whole. “I know it’s just… how things are. But that doesn’t make it any easier.” You lower your gaze, feeling the familiar sting of tears welling up behind your eyes. “It’s hard not to feel like… one day, your tentacles are going to decide I’m not good enough. That there’s someone else out there who fits you better.”

Jungkook’s expression saddens even more, and he reaches out, his hand finding yours, even if it’s the only thing searching for you. His fingers are warm and big, as he squeezes your hand tenderly. “It doesn’t work like that,” he says softly, though you know its a lie. “They don’t decide everything. They’re curious, yes. But they’re not the ones who get to choose who I love.”

You know he’s lying, you know he’s only trying to mend what’s broken. “But what if they do? What if one day, they find someone else and—”

“I’ll fight them,” Jungkook interrupts, his voice resolute. He looks at you with such conviction, such certainty, that for a moment, you almost believe him entirely. “If they ever try to pull me away from you, I’ll fight them. Because I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

His words hang between you, like the final knot that holds the end of a stitch secure, binding it in place so it won’t come undone. And though there’s still doubt lingering in your heart, there’s also a quiet hope you want to follow blindly.

You manage a small smile, though your voice trembles slightly when you speak. “I hope that’s true,” you whisper, now lying to yourself as well. “Because I want you too. More than anything.”

Jungkook leans closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin like the brush of soft fabric. “It is true,” he murmurs, his voice low. “I promise.”

Jungkook then kisses you slowly, tenderly, like he has so many times before, but now there’s a sadness, a longing beneath it. You can feel it in the way his lips move against yours, the way his breath is restricted, the way his touch lingers longer than usual. It’s in the soft pull of his mouth, the way his fingers hold you like he’s afraid you might slip away. His fear, his desperation—they seep into the kiss, bitter, and you taste it with every breath, every trembling press of lips.

He pulls you onto his lap, his arms wrapping around you instinctively, holding you close, as if your bodies can protect each other from the truth untold. Your hands find their way to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair—soft, silken strands flowing between your fingers. His hands glide up from your thighs, tracing your spine, pressing you closer as they move higher, over your back, until they reach your neck, cradling it with a touch that is both tender and desperate. He holds you like you’re the last solid thing he can grasp in a world that’s threatening to crumble.

The kiss deepens, turning heated as the desperation between you grows. Your fear mirrors his, gnawing worry that clings to your being, tightening in your throat. You can’t stop thinking about the possibility of losing him—of waking up one morning, still wrapped in his arms, only to have him slip away from you without warning some hours later, taken by a bond you have no control over. The thought haunts you, lingers in your mind as your kiss becomes more frantic, more painful. It’s like you’re both trying to escape the fear, but the harder you cling to each other, the closer it seems to get.

Jungkook lifts your small form effortlessly, carrying you to his bedroom without breaking the kiss, his steps hurried, like he’s trying to outrun something. When you finally reach the bed, your hands are on him, frantically pulling at his clothes with shaking hands as he pulls at yours, both of you desperate to strip away the layers separating your skin. You kiss him harder, desperate to forget, to lose yourself in him, to forget the race against the clock that neither of you wants to see.

You can barely savour this moment, the moment that should have meant everything, that moment when you finally allowed your bodies to connect in the only way possible. You don’t even stop to take in the sight of him—the way his body is revealed to you, inch by inch, until he stands before you completely bare. You don’t take the time to marvel at his beauty, the strength of him, the way he seems to tower over you with his sheer size. All you can think about is the sadness, the dark cloud that lingers over this moment, threatening to suffocate any joy you might have felt. You barely even register the difference between your bodies when he finally presses into you—his size, the way your body stretches around him, the sharp sting of pain that follows. It’s all distant, muffled, like you’re watching it happen to someone else, detached and numb.

But Jungkook’s eyes, they’re wide, filled with sorrow and longing, and his voice breaks as he whispers, over and over, a chant of reassurance that he’s trying so hard to believe. “I love you. I love you. I’m never letting you go.” He repeats it like a mantra, as if saying it enough times will make it true, will make the fear disappear.

But the words only echo between the slap of flesh, but you can’t find the strength to respond. You want to—want to tell him you love him too, that you’ll never leave, that you’ll fight for this with everything you have—but the cloud has taken hold, and the words stick in your throat, unable to escape. Instead, you stay silent, letting his words fill the space between you, hoping they’re enough for both of you, even as doubt and sadness weigh heavy on your chest.

And when you both reach that moment of release, it feels hollow—beautiful on the surface, but fragile beneath. The euphoria that should have filled you instead leaves you feeling emptier than before, breaking your heart even more. You lay there with him, tangled in the sheets, your bodies pressed together, but it’s as though a chasm has opened up between you. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. This isn’t how you imagined your first time with him, how you thought your love would feel.

Instead, all you’re left with is the silence that follows and more tears in your eyes than you can hold back. You wonder if this is your new reality—living each day with the constant worry that he might be taken from you. You wonder if the love between you might not be enough to keep you together in the end. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to look at him again without that pang of uncertainty and sadness.

You wonder…

masterlist • 2

a/n 3: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like!

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for part 2 and eventual bonuses 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

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[nevertheless-moving]

I have a handful of aus that involve bridge four becoming either briefly or unshakably convinced that kaladin is actually a herald (either one who lost his memory, or secretly, as a test for the lighteyes (they're not doing well)). Actually there's probably at least one guy in canon in WOK who has this as his only half joking pet theory and a couple others who are willing to hear him out for laughs. When the Tower run second ideal happens he's just like I TOLD YOU GUYS I STORMING TOLD YOU.

Anyway Bridge Four Shenanigans such as:

swearing by different heralds names extra loudly to see if kaladin turns around at one

One guy around a corner burning glyph wards dedicated to specific heralds at timed intervals while you watch kaladin carefully to see when he twitches

Saying blatantly wrong things about heraldic legends to see if kaladin will correct you. this one actually works sometimes!!

Eventually teft (assuming its not a time travel scenario where teft is also pretty sure radiants shouldn't just know per-recreance things) or kaladin realizes what's going on and exasperatedly explains his Actual Whole Deal. The guys still keep the bit going, 95% because they've learned it really annoys Kaladin, 5% because he might still be a herald that's testing them only he has a new name (its a very multicultural group of men. What's one more name for Jezrian/Yaezir/Yaysi). And if he is a herald testing them then that's a dick move to pull on your own bridge crew so he deserves to be mocked for it.

Bridge Four being Assholes:

Very satisfying to angrily snap "Kaladin's hands!" to his face when he assigns you night watch for the second week in a row.

Or even just doing a normal herald swear and then immediately following it up with "SORRY CAPTAIN NO OFFENSE." The more panic you fake the better. He sighs so hard, it's great.

a genuinely aggrieved "CAPTAIN'S TITS" got such hard laughs after Lopen stubbed his toe that Moash almost threw up

but unfortunately. as we all know. if you do something ironically enough times. it eventually becomes an actual habit.

And now some of the other bridgecrews have picked up on it and the Captain might actually send the guys who trained them on a one way trip to the tranquiline halls. Skar tripped in front of Prince Adolin and cursed without thinking about it and now the Brightlord is asking. a LOT of questions. Couple of pissed off ardents might get involved. It's messy.

[deadwooddross]

Was chatting with pals and ended up writing some summaries of my settings...I used to talk about them more, but I tend to change things a lot and got a little shy bc i'm never quite sure what will stay Consistent BUT, their main conceits have all pretty much stayed the same, so, here's some summaries

Otiose: Quiet apocalypse heralded by the four horsemen (huge worms who swim through the air). there wasn't a war or anything, but something bricked the entire satellite and gps system, and everything just kind of fell apart in the modern (future sci-fi, 'designer baby' era) world with it

Ergosphere: FAR sci-fi, humans haven't found ANY sophonts until the Idul find them, uncannily familiar fungus homunculi. The Idul are very divided and one of the cultures core drives is sacrificing materials and people to a particular hungry god. it goes. a little bit bad and a little bit fine.

The Sprawl: There's a tear between the human world and the fae world and great roots are spreading everywhere like kudzu. The elves are Unpleasant motherfuckers. Figuring out how to adapt or dying trying to burn back the incursion ensues

Oddside: Sort of a strange limbo world, I haven't decided if its multiple planets or not, but at least one takes place on a brown dwarf. Humanity is built on a living corpse (not entirely literal but not entirely Not either) and billionaires have plugged themselves into a line of ambrosia not meant for them. Unclear mix of new weird and sci-fi, but mostly follows a baby immortal and someone who kinda wants to die. its got oyster mummies. the sun might be broken, or maybe just old

Archives: Earth got hit by a rock again, humanity moved everyone it could to a partially developed two planet system. One is colonists and one is so shitty but habitable it becomes a prison planet. You can imagine how this goes

Revenants: Death is broken and most people come back in one way or another. sort of low fantasy/early industrial era on a massive continent during an ice age. more of a sandbox, but one with lots of Fighting about how to handle the un/dead most of my characters have a "Home" setting between all of these, but they can appear in any of them because I loooove AUs

[the-artist-grimm]

Okay, so I have a few questions that don’t line up with each other, but here goes!

What was Anthea’s first reaction to Chemach, Kudaai, and Clauneck?

What were Aym and Baal’s first reaction to rain, snow, or thunder/lightning?

Are there potentially other lambs in your au that don’t live in the Lands of the Old Faith?

Do you have ideas for a Narilamb baby?

What was Anthea’s first reaction to Chemach, Kudaai, and Clauneck? 

Clauneck - Met him during their first proper crusade but had heard about him from Ratau previously. Anthea thinks he’s a mysterious, but intelligent person. They also are very fond of his decorations and after several visits both find that they both share a mutual love of stars. The decorations hanging in the lamb’s room were actually purchased from him, and he often lets Anthea know whenever his cards herald any sort of upcoming starfall so they can watch.  Kudaai - Met him prior to becoming a vessel when they were around 16 or so. Shrumy had been teaching Anthea how to fight at Ratau’s request, and they figured it was time to get the lamb properly fitted for their own weapon. Anthea has a lot of respect towards him and thinks his weapons work is amazing, since their hometown never had a blacksmith. That first meeting saw the lamb’s polite but curious nature able to charm a usually gruff Kudaai. The lamb tends to chat with him about whatever he’s working on on visits now, since they ask more in-depth questions like the pros and cons to different blade styles, metals, ect compared to just asking a vague ‘what are you working on?’  Chemach - Met her during one of their earlier crusades, and is the only one of the three siblings Anthea’s somewhat unsettled by. Chemach’s more erratic behavior leaves the lamb typically on edge, though they try to still be polite. While Anthea is happy to chat with Kudaai or Clauneck whenever they come across them, with Chemach Anthea tends to try to get in and out, that first visit Chemach actually ended up startling Anthea quite a bit upon dropping down from the ceiling.   

What were Aym and Baal’s first reaction to rain, snow, or thunder/lightning? 

❄️ Snow: The twins LOVED seeing it through the crown, and even more-so in person. Think puppies playing in snow for the first time, the twins had woken up prior to Anthea and Narinder and had rushed out in just their nightgowns cause they were so excited. Nari and Anthea woke up shortly after to the sound of shrieking outside and ran out weapons drawn in a panic, only to find the boys chasing each other while trying to shove snow down the others’ collar.  They should’ve urged them inside to change, but it’d been the first time they’d seen the kits spar against one another since their deaths, as post resurrection neither could handle holding a weapon much less their old play fights hand to hand without panicking.   🌧️ Rain: The twins were wary at first since water, but after a while found that the sound rain made was soothing.  ⚡ Thunder/Lightning: Terrified. A pretty bad storm hit only a week after their resurrection while it was Narinder’s night with them, and he had to send Leshy (the only revived bishop at the time. Leshy had been staying at Nari’s house since they’d reconciled mostly), to go fetch the lamb since both twins were too petrified to go out. Anthea arrived to find Narinder trying to calm Aym down from a panic attack and while Baal had gone mute with his claws digging into Nari’s arm to the point of drawing blood from holding it so tight.  It was that combined with already nightly treks over to the others’ place after one of the twins’ woke up from nightmares that led to Narinder and Anthea to just agreeing to alternate the house all four slept at rather than hoping the twins could manage a night with only one of them.

Are there potentially other lambs in your au that don’t live in the Lands of the Old Faith? 

Possibly, though lands beyond that of the Old Faith are largely unexplored/lack any contact. There’s other nations and lands, but they all got their own things going on (I imagine eventually they do make contact, since the Old Faith eventually could be considered just a sort of kingdom after a few centuries). 

Do you have ideas for a Narilamb baby?

No ideas for drawings yet but Anthea and Narinder do likely have more kids eventually, though it’s not for a long while. Anthea’s mainly hesitant about more children since they fear making Aym and Baal feel as neglected/as pressured to be good examples as they’d felt when their parents had more kids, and Narinder kinda wants to wait till they’re both in the right headspace for it. Like they love children don't get them wrong, but they don't want to jump into things when they got a still young cult, their own remaining issues, and two tweens to watch over. Plus Aym and Baal are like 11 when they’re resurrected and not only still have plenty of years of childhood left, but also have a lot of trauma to work through so they want to make sure they can devote themselves fully to their boys. They do both get their baby fix as cultists start feeling safe enough to start their own families though-there’s a nursery that acts as a daycare while families take their kids back in evenings, so when not busy Anthea or Narinder try to stop by to read with the kids there.

[aesthetic-uni]

Okay Arcane Season 2 Final reaction -Episode 7

I am freaking the FUCK out

In case anyone is wondering, Jinx is my favorite, I want happiness for her, don’t get me wrong I love all the others but if she’s not happy by the end of this you won’t ever see me again

Opening vinyl-I literally stopped breathing ID THAT EKKO AND JINX AGSJRBLDJ?!?!

My king Ekko, where have you been all this time. Please come home we miss you

EKKO?! And is that little drawing Jinx??

OH ALTERNATE UNIVERSE TIME BABEY so many fanfics are going to go off this I can tell

EKKO!! He looks so handsome and alive!!! (My hopes for these characters ARE VERY LOW AS YOU CAN TELL)

Jinx looks so cute!!!

BENZO!! Oh my fucking god is this going to be a Happy Universe that NONE OF THEM ARE GOING TO GET?! I’m going to throw myself off a cliff.

Oh my god no one ever address Ekko’s trauma with Benzo I’m so glad they’re doing it THAT WAS HIS DAD!!

This is cruel. This is just cruel how DARE they give us a happy au

No Netflix I will not skip the intro fuck off

AAAAW EKKO NOO SEEING EVERYTHING THAT COULD HAVE BEEN

God Jinx looks SO CUTE I need so much fanart of her

Ps I know this is technically Powder, I’m too lazy to constantly switch names so Jinx

Also does she have a pink streak in her hair? I don’t like the implications of that

Aaaaaw they’re partners :((((

MYLO AND CLAGGOR HOW FUCKING DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU OH FUCK OH GOD

Wait omg “Trouble in paradise” TIMEBOMB?!

I have gotten through THREE MINUTES OF THIS SHOW

Oh that cute Jinxer is here woo! Lmao Mylo is so real.

Aaaw Claggor he’s trying to help the city and he cares about his little sister AND HOW FUCKING DARE YOU ARCANE

AAAW JINX TRYING TO HELP MYLO FUCKING HELL ARCANE

“WHAT WOULD THEY DO WITHOUT YOU” JESUS CHRIST ARCANE

Okay this isn’t funny anymore where’s Vi

Okay but is it OUR professor?! (I can’t spell his name)

IT IS!!

Okay but WHY what’s happening with Jayce?!

VI VI VI VI VI

OH NO JAYCE WHY CANT HE BE HAPPY TOO?!

Ooooh his HAMMER is why he got sent to the apocalypse au huh

Is that evil Viktor. Is that the Machine Herald? IS IT TIME FOR GLORIOUS EVOLUTION?!

Wow I was just joking with the apocalypse au but it really was it huh?

Aw I like that Jinx kept her workshop

Is that a heart. Around a picture of them. IS TIMEBOMB ACTUALLY CANON IN THIS UNIVERSE?!

Wait, is this THEIR WORKSHOP?!

FUCK I KNEW VI WAS GOING TO BE DEAD GOD DAMN IT

Oh this isn’t happy at all :(

OH FUCK THIS ISNT HAPPY AT ALL

WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SHOW ME THAT HOLY HELL?! OH MY GOD THERE WAS NO REASON FOR SHOWING ME THAT

Way to hammer it in Arcane for no fucking reason other than MAKING ME CRY YOU PIECE OF SHIT. LIKE I GOT IT. VI IS DEAD IN THAT UNIVERSE. DIDNT NEED TO SHOW ME HER SIBLINGS REACTING TO HER DEATH

GLORIOUS EVOLUTION HORROR

Oh god not doomed Timebomb IN THE FUCKING HAPPY AU

Poor Jayce just has to fucking go through it huh

Wow that is an understatement.

Okay but MelJayVik crumbs ILL TAKE IT

YEAH THE PERSEVERE JAYCE!!!!

NO STOP MAKING ME CRY WITH THE HAPPY AU

There’s not much I can say with Jayce other than holy fuck this poor man

God they could have been partners. They could have been the brightest minds in all of Zaun. They could have been HAPPY. I fucking hate this show why would you show me this. I’m never going to recover

HE BROKE TIME BABY!!! FOUR SECONDS BACKWARDS LETS GOOOO

God they are so in love. God this is going to kill me

Oh my god the fanartists and editors are going to MURDER me with the “Do you think we together in every universe” trend aren’t they?

SILCO?! ZAUNDADS CANON?!

Ekko hold on. EKKO HOLD ON.

Oh my god this reference to season 1 episode 4 how fucking dare you

HOW DARE YOU MAKE TIMEBOMB CANON LIKE THIS?! AURRRGGGHHHH

Ripping my hair out. Clawing my eyes out. Beating my chest until it caves in. This is everything I could ever want. HOW. DARE. YOU.

I love them. I love them so much. Why would you do this to me.

IM GOING TO BE FUCKING SICK

[thesummerestsolstice]

Okay I'll talk about my "standard Gil-Galads" in another post but I also have one very niche AU Gil-Galad I've been meaning to write something about: Fin(arfin)-Galad. Because, think about it. The timeline doesn't exactly work, but Finarfin comes with the host of Aman and decides to stay in Middle-Earth afterwards. And there's so much there.

Finarfin finally following the footsteps of his family, late and last, as always.

Seeing Beleriand in ruins, the wreckage and graves of four of his children, and still decides to stay. And no one understands why.

Is it because he feels responsible for what's left of the Noldor? Does he feel shame for leaving his children alone to face the darkness? Is there nothing in Valinor for him after the devastation of Alqualonde? Does he have some of the Noldor ambition and fire in him after all?

Finarfin was once easy to read, but he isn't anymore. He takes his feelings and reasons both to his grave.

He takes a new name, and speaks so little of his past that over time, most forget who he is, and begin to assume he must be Orodreth's son, or something like that.

Sometime in the Second Age, Fingolfin is released from Mandos, and Finarfin, who has always been exactly where Fingolfin thought he was, is nowhere to be seen.

The Noldor of the First Age remember Finarfin as the prince who stayed behind, but he ends up becoming the longest-reigning and most successful Noldor King in Middle-Earth.

He builds his own realm in Lindon, he gets to see his daughter married and with a child of her own, the remnants of his brothers' lines survive in Elrond and Celebrimbor.

He makes Elrond his heir, though he knows Elrond will never take the crown. There's an understanding between them– king and herald, both doomed to live half in the visions of foresight they have.

Is he happy there? Does he know?

And in the end he dies recklessly, in fire, charging into a hand-to-hand fight with a mad god.

Just like his brothers.

(Or his son)

[ruiniel]

This storm

I. Even for you

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen | Rating: 🔞| Geto Suguru x fem!Reader | Count: 7.8K | Ongoing | Summary: A night after a difficult mission... | On AO3 | Tags & Warnings: my first fic for JJK, fem!reader, Second Person POV, Geto didn't defect AU, But still has it rough, Set four years after Hidden Inventory, Friends with some benefits, It’s complicated, Light angst, Feels, Needy!Geto, Dom energy!Geto, Smut, Vaginal sex, Oral sex (f receiving), Self-indulgent what else, Badly wanted more of this flavor Geto in fic so here I am

The clock startles you, eyes drawn from your reading towards the brief robotic sound. The numbers flicker red against black, heralding midnight. 

With a sigh you close the book and rise, walking to the window instead. The downpour has been ongoing for hours now, and water flows down the glass like tears. 

Cold. The city is cold and dark, a flood of souls and living blood. Neon lights flash in jittery repetition like an irregular pulse, reflected by a veiny system of wet roads: red, blue, red, blue. 

Worry binds your heart, and thoughts roil like wind. Where is he? You had a day off (a luxury rarely afforded in the world you both share) but your friend’s work is out there in the frontlines. Always gone, always alone lately. Sometimes, you land a mission together where you do your part as an auxiliary manager, but those are few and far between. 

You won't call, it’s a given. Any disruptions could lead to injury or worse, and even the thought of him being harmed brings anxiety like a weight forcing your airways shut. He’s your friend, more so the first person who helped guide you when you first reached Tokyo, so patient, laid back and generous with his time. The affinity was instant and mutual, and a couple of years later here you are, sharing a rent. You learned many things about Suguru Geto since then, some wonderful, some worrying—such as his tendency to drive himself into the ground for his vocation. But in the end, he is only human, isn't he? 

Your thoughts are cut by the familiar, metallic click and turn of a key. The door to the apartment opens, and the newcomer eases inside. 

“Suguru…” you turn, watching his tall figure for anything amiss. His movements are sluggish, his gaze unfocused. It’s been one of those missions, then. 

Suguru raises his head at your voice, the blank expression losing to a fickle smile. “Hey.” He’s drenched by the rain: his hair, his uniform, his skin. “How was your day off?” he asks, propping a hand against the wall and kicking off his shoes. 

“It was... it was fine.” 

It must’ve been a difficult exorcism, you think, as he goes and slumps into a kitchen chair. 

You sit across from him, leaning forward with your elbows resting on the table between you. He looks exhausted, his complexion sickly, as though he’s had poison and is living through the worst of it. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, nor will it be the last. 

The rain patters against the windows, filling the silence. Suguru hangs his head, rubs at his right eye, and carelessly undoes the uniform button at his chest before shrugging the entire thing off and hanging it on the back of the chair. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask…” you try, watching him roll up the sleeves of his shirt. You want to know what kind of special grade he dealt with, but you can't get yourself to do it: it’s on his face, the bags under his eyes, the tension in his body. He looks like he’s about to be nauseous. No, talking about it won't help, not now.

Suguru shakes his head. Silently he reaches for a pack of cigarettes and stands. You follow him out on the small balcony, both leaning against the rail. The rain stopped for a reprieve, and the sounds of wheels turning on wet asphalt reach you from the streets below. 

Suguru lights a cigarette, staring ahead. On the first exhale of smoke it looks as though he wants to spit his lungs out. You know how it goes by now: his cursed spirit manipulation technique leaves him with an aftermath few could bear or live with for long, but still, he does it. If there's anything Suguru has, it's strong principles and an immutable conviction as far as his role in this world goes. 

His silence, in any other context, would feel comfortable. But now his jaw is tight, and he’s crossed his arms at his chest as if straining to keep all the curses he’s absorbed from breaking free. 

All you can do is reach out, fingers smoothing his dark hair away from his face; a stunted motion, but one you couldn’t resist. 

Suguru sketches no reaction to your touch at first. He takes another drag of his cigarette and looks over, holding your gaze. Your stomach flips, a meld of relief and care rushing through you and coiling around your ribs like wildflowers. You wonder at this renewed sense of hope as your touch glides down his cheek, wiping away a droplet of gore.  

“It feels as if it’s all too much these days…” you murmur, “even for you.”

Suguru smiles again, once a confident grin—now a heartbreaking display when contrasting with his state. Sometimes, in recent months, you’d see an odd light in his stare, like a spark ready to ignite a sea of flames; but it only lingers for a moment before it dies, and he’s back to the one you know. 

“It is. But… you’re here.” His eyes close as he leans into your palm, nuzzling against it, the brush of his skin like warm silk.

You swallow. Sometimes he makes these small gestures that hide a greater meaning, it’s who he is. You like to think you’re used to it by now. “Suguru, are you all righ—”

“Help me.” His words are a warm, rushed whisper against your hand. You know what it means, you know it helps him on a physical level to recuperate. You’re friends, both very aware of the other in many ways: qualities, needs, and sometimes, sometimes… you oblige each other.

And you did miss him, the anticipation pooling to your core an irrefutable proof. 

Suguru draws back, catlike eyes opening. His lips part as he puts out the unfinished cigarette, a tremble to his fingers. “I need a shower.” 

You can’t but smile and chew on your lip as he passes you, his hand grazing the small of your back. “Wait for me?”

“Where would I go?” you tease, your voice only a little choked. 

Selfish? Yes, you most certainly are. Suguru is kind, and possibly the most courteous person you’ve met among your peers, and he’d do anything for the people he cares about. When you first spoke of what developed from your friendship, you agreed to keep things open, not least because your occupations didn’t allow for much more.

Distance means safety. Distance means less pressure. But, there’s a flip side to everything and deep inside you wonder—would anyone else, apart from Satoru maybe, be able to remain by his side for as long as you both have?

The answer doesn't matter, does it? 

You stare ahead at the city, not slowing for a moment despite the hour. Wetness splashes your face, and faraway thunder signals a renewed pour. Rain falls, slower this time, reluctant little drops that induce a near catatonic state of mind, and you barely feel arms wrapping around your middle from behind.

“Hi again,” you murmur as Suguru buries his face against your neck; the softness of lips on your skin follows. 

“Hi,” he says, hugging you tighter and pressing a kiss to your jaw. His hands feel heavy on your body, one sliding down your thigh while the other reaches up to your ribs, ghosting the side of a breast.

You have to admit, whatever lies you tell yourself, your body will always deny it through the swift, unruly reactions to his closeness. You missed him, and now… now you want him in ways that make your head spin. Base. Primal. 

The hand on your thigh drifts inward and up, up, up. His chest heaves against your back, and his grip on you is tighter when he reaches the warmth between your legs. “May I?” he asks into your skin. 

You nod. You feel his smile against your neck as his hand grips you, massaging the hot center through your nightgown.  

You huff a short breath; he sighs. “You’re so… warm…” he squeezes gently, his long hand arched and slowly moving back and forth between your legs. You grasp his other arm, your knees already useless. 

The rain is cold, his mouth is warm. His hair is loose and still wet from the shower, dripping down your collarbone as he tilts your chin to the side, and presses his lips to yours. 

Suguru tastes good. He’s always tasted better than anyone you recall, deepening the kiss faster than you can react, the hand between your legs drawing your hips against his. 

“… you're so…” his fingers never stopped teasing your slit through your clothes, and he’s hardening against your ass as he speaks, “...delicious,” he says, sucking harshly on your lower lip before melding his mouth to yours. 

You can barely get an intake of breath, and as good as this feels, you're both getting pelted by the rain now.

Not that he cares: one hand holding you by the jaw and the other weakening you, he feels overwhelming, so much so that it hurts a little as you break the kiss. “Suguru, the rain…”

“Yes, you’re right,” he mumbles, still nipping and licking at your lips, “Of course, of course, you’re right…” and with that he all but drags you after him as you are, never releasing you. 

You reach the one room with a double bed—usually yours to sleep in—where he throws you down, following and dragging you under him, pausing for a moment to stare at you. He’s wearing nothing but loose dark pants, and your eyes are drawn to the ragged cross of scars lining his chest. Unable to resist, you trace one with your finger, then rise and kiss along it as he holds the back of your head. 

“You… I’m so… glad you’re here, I’m…” he doesn't continue, instead pushing you down by the shoulders and hastily sliding your nightgown up your thighs with both hands. There’s an urgency to each movement, to each kiss down your sensitive inner thigh, his head dipping lower and lower, his breath hot and eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you briefly while gently pulling aside your panties. 

Your lower body shivers with need, the sight alone throwing you in a daze—he’s good at this, you know he is, and he—

All following thoughts disperse and your mind empties when he runs his tongue along your slit in a slow, hot, languid stripe. 

“Oh god…” he says against your cunt, his hands on your inner thighs keeping them spread as he licks you again.

You clutch at the sheet, your fingers finding purchase in his hair when he sucks on your clit with the softest insistence. His eyes are closed, a furrow to his brow that you’d mistake for concentration if it weren't for the needy sounds slipping from his lips as he takes you slowly, again and again, like he’d been thirsty for this all his days. 

You're at a breaking point, thighs trembling beneath the pressure of his soothing hands, your mouth watering in pleasure at the sight and sensation of his pink tongue circling your clit, and all you can articulate is his name.

“Mm?” He doesn't even look up, still eating you out with maddening compulsion, sucking on your pussy lips before licking between them, up your clit and down to your hole, slipping his hardened tongue inside and urging your hips to move against his mouth. 

“I-I’m going to…” A stutter of muscles, then another, and he won't stop but keeps eating you out like he's in his own dream, urging you on with his eyes closed. 

“Please, come on… for me, will you…? You taste so good, so-so-good, did I ever tell you that? If not I’m… an idiot-your scent-your—...”

You can't hear the rest over the waves of a sudden high, nerves suffused with pleasure and the deepest relief you’ve ever felt. He breathes against your quivering cunt as your fingers lazily card through his hair. When he looks up at you again, his eyes are feverish, his lips aglow with your shine. He crawls up to you like a stalking feline pulling down his pants and reaching for a bedside drawer at the same time. “Where… did you have those…”

“It’s fine,” you urge him back down. “On the pill for a while now.”

He watches you for a moment, then leans in for a slow, open-mouthed kiss. His erection is pressed against your pussy, his forearms on either side of your head, his hands caressing your temples. 

He’s heavy against you but it’s that pleasant heaviness that goes with a craving to be consumed and just as you think this Suguru severs the kiss, rising to his knees. “Off. Take it off,” he says, his voice low and breathy as he slides his pants down his hips.

You don't even get to comply before he’s yanking your garments off himself, unveiling your body with jerked, impatient movements. “Much better…” he says, and for a moment you see it—that light in his eyes, the spark that both scares and thrills. But you’re easily distracted by the sight and sound of him pumping his cock as he stares at you so hungrily, as he drags you by the hip towards him and grabs you by one ankle, resting your leg over his shoulder. 

It strikes you how attractive the sight of him is, and you make sure to capture the memory: the slight crease between his eyebrows and the deepened flush across his cheekbones, his disheveled inky hair, the parted lips as he rubs the wet tip of his thick erection against your slit. The way the muscles in his abdomen tense and soft, barely audible moans leave him with each stroke. “Ready?” he asks but doesn't wait for an answer and you grit your teeth, watching the head of his cock disappear inside your body. “Good girl… just a little more, you can take me…”

“Suguru wait, it’s—” you cry out at the sudden thrust, your back arching off the bed.

He clamps a hand over your mouth, pressing down with his weight as you cry out against his palm. “… all in, it’s fine. I told you, like last time…”  

But last time it wasn't quite like this. Last time was a slow, tender affair full of exploration. This feels like an impending storm and he feels different too, but, at the same time, you find that you enjoy it. You wonder if it shows on your face despite your words.

He sank inside you to the hilt but now doesn't move, locking eyes with you. He’s biting down on his lip and his cock twitches inside your cunt, once, twice, a delicious feeling that makes you involuntarily tilt your hips upward. He’s aware enough to see it in your eyes, in the way your tongue peeks out to lick at the inside of his palm. 

Suguru smiles—there it is, that fox-like grin, a little tired but reminiscent of better, brighter days. Affection melts into the urgent need for him as he removes his hand from your mouth and slinks out of you slowly, torturously slow, until the thick head barely grazes your soaked pussy. 

Your vision sways when the sudden thrust slams right back into you. “God...”

“I know…” he gasps, his fingers digging into your hip bone, his other hand grasping the leg still propped against his shoulder. 

Another thrust leaves you dizzy, the angling of his hips changing as he leans forward, pressing more of his body weight onto you, and then—

He knows rhythm, he’s always had an innate understanding and empathy toward others, down to every level of their being. And now that sense of his must be at work because his pace is a lascivious crescendo, the long drags of his cock inside you harder and faster and just how you like them, his chest rising and falling shaken by his labored breathing. His eyes catch your stare, clouded with pleasure from the incessant, decadent ebb and flow. 

He fucks into you faster, until his skin is sleek with sheen and you're moaning helplessly from this sweet, merciless intrusion. In truth, you never have time, never enough energy to invest in someone else. It just comes with the territory, with the way of life most people would never understand. “Suguru,” you coo, and at the silent question in his eyes you add: “Harder…”

A huff of laughter escapes him and he wastes no time pulling out—you feel the loss immediately, a whimper your protest, but it’s short-lived as he turns you over. “On your knees.” 

You comply, rising to all fours in a breath. A slap to your ass nearly has you tumbling forward on the bed but the firm grasp on your hips won't allow it. He pulls you right back onto his cock, moaning softly as you involuntarily clench and squeeze, telling you how tight you are, how fine and slick you feel, all the while placing warm, shallow kisses along your spine. 

And then the world tilts sideways. You can hear nothing but the slap of his hips, feel nothing but the building rush inside as he pumps into you with vicious strength, pushing into you at a pace that has you quivering and crying out.

“Harder? Is that what you said?...” he asks, but there’s no trace of teasing or humor in his tone as he fucks you deeper, and the more you struggle the more bruising his hold on you becomes. 

You barely avoid biting on your tongue as your body shakes from his pitiless moves until you can’t take it anymore: your arms give way, and you fall over. 

“S-Suguru...” 

He keeps going, ramming you into the bed, sucking on your ear as you lie there and take it and take it and take it. For how long? 

“SUGURU—”

All you feel is the cleaving pleasure of an exquisite orgasm, a coil unwinding where your bodies are joined to spread like heavenly vines through your body. 

He flips you over at the same time, entering you and going completely still; his arms wind around you in a hot embrace. “I love… I love it when you do that…” he whispers against your neck, enjoying the uncontrollable spasming of your cunt around him. 

As you come down he picks up the pace again; your legs cross around his torso, your heels touching the small of his back. 

“That’s right…” you sigh as he groans into your neck, “Use me… use me…” 

“What?... Say that again... please.” His voice is pleading now, in direct opposition to the ruthless treatment from moments before. 

“I want you… to use me, Suguru,” you repeat, and oh how you mean it. He feels even deeper now, raising his head, your lips barely touching as he moves. “Use me! Use me-use me-god-fuck…” because he’s doing just that, moaning against your mouth as your hands come fisted in his hair and you pull. His movement is erratic, rhythm and all failing before successive, incessant, desperate pounding, so deep it hurts and—

His hips stutter once, twice, and he clutches at you fiercely when warmth floods your cunt, hot cum spurting as he keeps you trapped beneath him until you’re full of it. 

You lie there, chest to chest, breathing each other’s air. Your fingers ease the grip on his hair. When he tries to move, your hands press down onto the hard muscle of his ass. “Stay inside me for a while longer?...”

His amber eyes soften; you can feel his heart beating against your chest as though it wants to burst free of its own cage. Suguru doesn’t answer but tilts you both to the side, an arm wound around your middle, the other on the thigh draped over his hip, keeping you entangled. 

You’re spent, all the life force drained from your body, while he looks as though he’s run a marathon without pause: face flushed, muscles gleaming, tense and warm against your softness. His honeyed irises are brighter.

“Did it help?...” you ask, tucking yourself against his chest. The distant roll of thunder returns outside.

“Help?… Oh, yes, absolutely yes, of course. But…” he pauses, like the times he does when mulling over the right words. A trace returns of the Suguru you know most of the time: the gentle, responsible one. He’s usually so selfless and kind, that one would be hard-pressed to believe he’s caused the bruises currently forming on your hips.  

“But?” you ask, barely able to stay awake now; he’s so, so warm, and so close, and your mind can barely process coherent thoughts.

“I…”

You never hear the rest, drifting away, light and content as a leaf wayworn by the wind. Tomorrow… all else can wait until tomorrow.

II >

[catsoupki]

CHP. FOUR | WHAT RECONCILIATION REALLY MEANS (NSFW)

SUMMARY: Katsuki has settled into a routine-like dance with you ever since your debut as a hero. He takes care of you like harmonious clockwork, but as he peels layer after layer, he’s caught up with his own tantalising feelings when he finds your blood staining his hands. You teach him, slowly, of what it means to fall in love.

TAGS: pro hero au, fem reader, banter, hurt/comfort, smut (piv, unprotected, breeding, aftercare)

CHAPTER LENGTH: 3,990 | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT CHP.

The first few weeks of January don’t really seem real. You’ve claimed your spot as number three, pushing Shouto down a rank for the time being. You chuckle a bit, was it worth it? 

Your schedule is far from normal, your manager has forced you to be on rehabilitation leave, all of your patrols are being taken up by the sidekicks in your agency, and the only work you’re allowed to do is paperwork, records and organising. 

The first day that you came back was hectic. It was the sixth of January, villains caused more ruckus than usual, probably running high on those New Year’s Eve emotions. 

(But does that mean you can rob a bank too?)

On doctor’s orders, you are not to do any extreme sports and get any more major injuries in at least 2 months. It’s nice, sometimes, you're given a long-awaited breather, heroes who occupy the top 10 ranks know that they never really get a day off. Even when you’re on vacation, if that place needs a hero, you’re still a hero. 

Every day becomes softer, your morning jog is cut to a mile only, and you get to drop by the cafe near your agency for some breakfast before you head to the office. Your hand still instinctively reaches for the locker door that houses your hero suit after your morning showers, and you wince everytime.

Bakugou has been texting you less, maybe that's what the emptiness is. You check your phone more, you see dozens of texts and emails from companies, sponsors and coworkers, but the cavity eating away at your heart doesn’t stop. You’re waiting for something, maybe it’s Dynamight’s picture of the neighbourhood cat, maybe it’s the picture slyly taken of Red Riot helping an old lady cross the street– no more everyday tragedies. 

The Herald: Metal Gear’s Rise and Fall — Why Was the Quirk Ring Bust-In Such a Controversy?

By the second week of January, time starts passing by a little too fast. You still attend the physiotherapy lessons you’re assigned, you still complete the paperwork in your office, you’ve grown accustomed to eating out alone and not Katsuki’s meals too– it’s light work but everything feels so heavy. 

You don’t get a chance to slow down, you blink and sunrise becomes sunset, you rest your eyes and when you open them once more, you’re greeted with your bedroom ceiling and you're awake again. Every day you have something to do, and now it’s your opportunity to take a break for the night– January's group hangout is hosted at Eijirou’s.

You don’t think about anything on your way to his apartment, you don't remember whether you were standing or sitting during the subway ride, you don't remember the colour of the sky, it’s odd because you usually have such a good memory, you can remember Bakugou’s birthday, you can remember all the names of Mina’s cats, what happened?

You don’t notice until you’re about to knock on Kirishima’s door, you let the cold air bite down your throat, it stings, your sinuses hurt, but you don’t think you’d be able to hold yourself together otherwise. 

You don’t smile when Mina opens the door, she has this look in her eyes, like she knows something you don’t, maybe she’s doing you a favour by not saying it aloud, yet it somehow still feels a mockery. 

You don’t greet everyone in the room, they still return friendly and worried smiles, all except one. When you were just about to say ‘Hey Bakugou’ he walks out the door, mumbling something about picking up the food, and when his shoulder brushes yours, he flinches like it hurts, and you try not to wince at the stab in your heart. 

You don’t participate in conversation much either, you don’t laugh as hard at the punchlines, everyone notices, even Katsuki, but no one says anything, too nice to point it out, and too tired to meddle with it. 

The movie continues playing, flashes of black and white occasionally breaking through the haze of your mind, dialogues are but a background noise that fails to distract you from your thoughts. You had looked forward to this, being around friends has always been soothing when you spiral too deep into your own head, but now that you and him aren’t talking, you think that maybe it wasn't your friends that had ever calmed you down to begin with, just him.

They all take turns trying to start a conversation, but the silent tension between you and Katsuki has also dwindled everyone’s mood, you feel sorry, you don't know how they put up with you two sometimes. 

Time starts passing by in a blur again, you’re watching a movie on the couch, you’re eating takeout, you're drinking beer, you're putting on your shoes, Mina is talking about something, Bakugou doesn't ask you to stay with him, Bakugou doesn't look at you when you're turning around, Bakugou doesn't shout some reminder regarding safety when you begin to walk away, Bakugou– forget it. You're already on your way to the subway station, and the air is cold when his arms aren’t wrapped around your shoulders. 

“Can’t you just let it go?” Kirishima leans onto the balcony beside him, a beer in hand. He doesn’t look at him, after all, having been friends with him since they were mere teenagers has given him instincts, he knows that by looking at him Bakugou will only be more shameful, so he does him a favour and looks at the sea instead. 

“This is for her own good.”

@alpha-deku: MG is.. falling off, i think if the quirk ring thing happened a year ago she would have done it smoothly without any hiccups at all, not being able to foresee the extension of quirks and to put yourself into danger so that other people around you have to pick up after you is.. kinda dumb for a top 4 hero lol you would assume that she would’ve had a plan B and not just fall out of the sky to take a bullet for somebody who was clearly more powerful in terms of skill compared to her 

“That fucking cunt..! Wha- who does he think he is? You can’t just drop in and out of my life just because I’m convenient, asshole…” You mumble, drunk, steps crossing haphazardly as you stomp the curb with anger. Your friends struggle to hold you up as you fling your arms around in vexation; some weeks of bottled emotions finally clawing at the edges of the jar, overdue. The blaring music from the clubs all around you and the filth that comes out of the mouths of low-lifes can’t be drowned out, why don't they have airpods for his voice? 

You look at the flesh of your thumb, fingers dancing over the bumpy patch of scar, it’s weird what grief does to people.

(What grief? For what?) 

Every scar has its own beginnings and endings; you got that scar after tripping over a rock while playing hide and seek with Katsuki as a child. When you landed on the rough asphalt with your palms open to break the fall, you had actually slid a few inches. 

Tears were left unspilled behind your glossy eyes, gaze landing on your bleeding thumb, lips plumping into a pout as you held in the sobs that were bouncing inside your skeleton. 

When Katsuki kneels in front of you, he’s as much of a gentleman as he is now, holding your arm tightly, inspecting your wound carefully, wiping your tears away, he brought you to his mother, where she immediately assumed the worst: ‘Katsuki! Did you do this? I raised you not to hurt girls! What’s wrong with you–’ your hiccups interrupted her, ‘I’m sorry Mrs. Bakugou, but it wasn’t him, I tripped myself, Katsuki helped me up.’ It was a miracle that she had understood you through your sniffles, but her expression immediately changes and she starts bandaging you up right away. 

You two stopped playing hide and seek after that, none of you realised that that accident would be your last time playing hide and seek until years later, when you’re reminiscing in your rooms late at night. 

The scar is ugly— the skin there is patchy, uneven, discoloured, the shape is rugged and asymmetric, its origin is as childish as it can be, but you love that scar. It’s weird when you find love in violence. 

(You love it because Katsuki showed you his treehouse afterwards to cheer you up, not even Izuku knows about that.)

That night, when you lay in bed with your run-down makeup washed off, when you have changed out of the revealing and uncomfortable fabrics and into an oversized hoodie that doesn’t belong to you, you wish someone was there to listen through your sniffles and wipe your tears away. 

Your lives have been so deeply intertwined that everything and anything he sees, he’s reminded of you. The neighbourhood stray cat you named Hummus, the hot potatoes sold on the side of the street by that old lady you love talking to, the bus stop advertisement campaign you did with the local animal shelter, he can never truly escape you, even when he’s making the active effort to. Maybe he never grew out of his own cowardice. 

You don’t make it to the February hangout. 

@shotoswife: #mg_overparty it’s so unfair that shes up a rank while shoto is pushed down to fourth??? What did she even do in the mission that the HPSC is selling as a GLORIOUS triumph, shoto literally saved 14 kids from that avalanche in hokkaido, why is that any less impressive compared to that absolute fiasco

The Spring Hero Gala is rolling around the corner, with one month remaining, your stylist has taken advantage of your still freed up schedule and sent you to nine different fittings over the span of a week. It gets tiresome, from taxis to studios to taxis to studios, from itchy and restricting fabrics back to your breathable and flowy hoodies, but it distracts you from the overt absence of Katuski in your life, so you welcome it with open arms. 

After some discussions, your stylist settles the deal with Balenciaga, and your dress for the Hero Gala in March is decided, a maroon silk dress that shapes your waist and chest, it’s flattering on you, the staff had said, you thank them with a humble smile.

(Unconvinced, much like how the internet would feel, you think.)

You return to hero work at a slow and steady pace, increasing the hours of patrols day by day, the abilities of the sidekick accompanying you slowly decrease week by week, and by the time March chases itself into your back, you’re once again a regular occupant on the ranks of the latest villain captures on the official HPSC website. 

Life is moving on, with or without Bakugou, with or without his lunches, with or without his good-mornings, you don’t want him to be your biggest what-if. 

Top 10 Most Scandalous Paparazzi Photos This Month: No.1 Metal Gear Seen Leaving a Gay Bar With a Man Draped Around Her Shoulders! view entire article 

Bakugou has been twisting and turning in his bed for the past hour. He’s always had a good sleep schedule, when his head hits the pillow, it’s lights out within five minutes. He’s not used to this, this unending cycle of thoughts spiralling in his head, he can’t seem to shut off his brain, is he really avoiding you for your own safety? Or his own cowardice– no. Not his own cowardice. Never his own cowardice. 

It’s been exactly three months since you got out of the hospital. Bakugou, like many, has thrown himself headfirst into heroics as a means to not think about you, not that it’s been of much success. Every day and every waking hour, he spends it thinking of you, your hair, your gentle but firm touch, your ringtone, your ‘did u eat yet’s. 

His manager has already chosen a suit for the upcoming Hero Gala, he didn’t have a say in it, he hasn't even glimpsed at what he’d be wearing that evening. These days he just spends them scrolling tabloids on his phone, the latest scandal regarding Metal Gear, recent paparazzi pictures of you. He spends them far away from you, yet still paying close attention to your life. And so unlike himself, he drowns in his own self-pity before his alarm blares him awake, signalling another exhausting day of hero work, filled with villainy and bloodshed. 

Bakugou recalls his teenage years, and even the years he spent in the Genius Office, he has never thought that he’d ever stop being friends with you, he remembers making a vow at the ripe age of 22, promising himself and his friends that he’d never tell you just how much he wanted to have you in his embrace if it could preserve the state of his friend group back then, harmonised and synchronised like it’s their job, but seemingly Bakugou has a knack for fucking things up, he never meant for this to happen, but maybe forever was a word meant for memories, not people.

2X51 Spring Hero Gala Name List: Missing Plus-Ones from Dynamight and Metal Gear? Catch Up On the Latest Hero Drama from THE EVENING STANDARD

When Dynamight first sets foot on the red carpet, he is greeted with a myriad of flashes and shouts. Paparazzi, fans and the like all vie for his attention, the stuffy March air makes his skin sticky, his scowl is in place when he fights his way across the room. He’s tipsy, he has made sure of it, he knows he won’t be able to deal with you in public, let alone sober. 

He used to be a lot of things, sometimes he was your questions and other times he was your answers, but right now he wants to be a comfort that doesn’t quite require either, but he thinks he might end up as your greatest I’ll-never-know. 

When he sees you arrive, his heart skips a beat. Did your stylist do this on purpose? It makes his palms sweatier than usual when he sees your dress, the same hue of red as his eyes, he thinks you look dashing, as you always do, he’s meticulous in the study of you, he’s skilled in reading your expressions, the slightest twitch of a brow and the smallest tick of your lips, maybe the cameras won’t be able to pick out the tired dread that sits on your face, but he knows your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, yet he still can’t look away.

“You look stunning.” He finally admits.

“Oh you're talking to me again?” He winces, he’s been ignoring you, he knows that, you know that, the entire friend group knows it, even the public is aware. He feels like a schoolboy with the way he pretends your existence doesn't matter, some hypocrite he is, he thinks, who was he to criticise your coping mechanisms when he avoided you to protect himself? 

He’s spent three whole months convincing himself that he’s cutting contact with you for your own good, that maybe without him in your life, maybe you’d lead a peaceful one, one without peril, but he knows now, he’s been avoiding you out of his own fear, he never grew out of own cowardice.

“I’m sorry I’m in love with you.” The way he looks at you conveys everything that you need to know, his eyes are filled with something you don’t see in Bakugou very often.

(Fear, fear of losing you, again.)

Your silence is uncanny. It makes him wonder what he’d do if you were to answer with a ‘I’m never talking to you again’, your lack of a response is perhaps more infuriating than that, but he doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself. If you were to block him and refuse to ever see him again, he’d feel sorry. If you were to move from the city and to somewhere else to avoid him– no, you won’t do that, he’s sure you won’t give up everything in your life right now for him, for pitiful him, but it does make him think how he’d do just about anything to see you again. He’s taken that right for granted so far, it never struck him as a privilege to be able to lay his eyes on you, but right now it’s all he’ll ask for, because your absence doesn’t get any quieter even when he conditions himself to it. 

You look beautiful, you look like the one thing he'd love to look at for the rest of his life. 

Somehow your smile is still blazing, like the sun. “Did you miss my rage?” 

(You always knew you’d put down your ego and everything else to talk to him again if he asked for you once more.)

@bkgpackets: i think metal gear has done a lot, i think she’s done enough, for musutafu and for our boi katsuki too, it’s time for them to reconcile, they've been through so much tgt, i'm sure they’ll be able to make amends within a few words spoken

“Let’s welcome our top five heroes this year, they have done plenty in guaranteeing the safety of our neighbourhoods, some have risked their lives, some shared their blood, sweat and tears with us, for the sake of our livelihood. So let’s give them a round of applause, a standing ovation, for their courage and dedication towards protecting our reformed society. Welcome to the bright stage, Tsukuyomi, Shouto, Metal Gear, Dynamight, and Deku!”

Your ears are filled with a sore ringing, eyes blinded by overwhelming blinks of flashlights as you’re greeted with a warm welcome back by the hero society, the most powerful and influential part of civilization standing up to clap for you while you accept your award. You don’t glance down, afraid to fall, you look up and into the cameras, head-on with determination in your gaze and kindness in your grin, you’re Metal Gear. 

+++

When you call your manager to tell her that you won’t be attending any after-parties, she merely agrees with a knowing chuckle, and tells you ‘good luck’. 

After the five-course meal, you’re stuffed when you see Katsuki’s text on your lock screen, meet me behind the hotel garden, it said. Your purse is fluffed with congratulation cards from your coworkers and acquaintances, you clutch onto it as the wind sweeps beneath your dress, heels clicking across the marble floor as you look around and ask star-struck workers where the garden is. It took some extra effort making sure that you stayed away from front doors and cameras, not wanting your meeting with Bakugou to be interrupted by the paparazzi or obsessive fans. 

His back is turned towards you when you push the door open. You know he knows you’re here. He looks up, like troubles are weighing heavy on his shoulders, you can’t help but want to walk up to him to massage them, to strip his layers and take away his worries. 

You take your time walking up to him, you look at the flowers that surround you two, the moon that gives light to his shadow, you let the wind mess up your hair before you are finally shoulder to shoulder with him. He sighs, and you smile.

“I never got you out of my head. I don’t want to either, but I already think about you every hour of every day. I think about how if I were smarter with my emotions, I’d be able to kiss you and love you right every second of the year, of my life. Give me one more chance and I won’t fuck it up. Please.”

You continue glancing down the city while he twists his head to look at you, but when you look back at him, he stutters on his breath, the way you look at him has never changed, through the thick and thin, it is all so gentle.

“I’ll– can I make it up to you? I’ll make this our first date, I’ll make up for the time I lost, so– eyebrows, will you go on a date with me?” He’s blushing, you realise, to your absolute delight. And when you say yes, Bakugou thanks the Gods for the first time in his life. 

He takes your hand as he leads you to his car in the parking lot, it’ll take some time to get used to these gestures of affection. 

(He’s learned his lessons, every second spent by your side is precious, and he’ll learn to appreciate and accept that fact.) 

He opens the car door for you before getting on himself. When he drives you back to his home, he gives you the aux; the windows are rolled down, the air isn’t as humid anymore, it’s cool and it slightly nips at the exposed skin under the jacket he offered you earlier in the night. The journey is smooth, with just a few cars on the road as the clock ticks past 3, he pulls into his driveway, a view you haven’t seen since the last hangout hosted here. 

He doesn’t let you undo your seatbelt, he insists on doing it for you before he gets out of the door and walks over to your side. His touch is soft when he laces his fingers between yours, he guides you to his door as if he’s bringing a valued gift home, like you don’t already know the ins and outs of this apartment with the hours you’ve spent here, you’re sure you can navigate it blindfolded. 

The click of the lock is loud in the quiet of his apartment. You still see your mug sitting lonely behind his cupboards. He takes your purse from you and sets it gently on the cabinet before bending down, with his calloused fingers, he takes off your heels carefully, as if they’re made out of glass and would shatter on impact. When he stands to his full height again, he’s one breath closer, you can count the scars that dust across his countenance this way, you’re shameless in the way you let your eyes meander over his face, the delicate skin that have seen so much tragedy, right at your fingertips, smooth but rugged at the edges of his blemishes, his stories. 

His hands snake around your waist and land on the small of your back, pulling you near, until not even a sheet of paper can separate the two of you, the way he looks at you– it makes you feel nervous, shy, and just like every other aspect in his life, he meets your eye with courage, dedication, to prove himself to you once again. 

It’s you who kisses him first. You go on your tippy toes, just reaching his lips in time that he scoops you tight and close, your hands begin to make their way up his nape and into his messy locks, ashy and for you, its scent familiar. His big and rough hands cloak their way under your thighs, picking you up effortlessly before setting you down on that corner of the kitchen island. 

His breaths taste like liquor and you’re addicted. His lips are soft, even, in a way that you know he takes good care of himself, but his kisses begin to get a bit more desperate. Teeth begin to clatter, he begins to nip, like the wind and like you’d get away otherwise, and maybe you will. The grip you have on his hair grows needier, like you’re begging. 

He picks you up, and a small noise escapes from your lips that he swallows greedily. He’s waited so long, been so patient for so long.

Katsuki decides that he’s been a gentleman long enough. He slowly walks towards his bedroom, pushing the door open with his hip before he puts you on the bed with as much tenderness a starving man could have. 

He doesn't hesitate in stripping you when he sees the same desire glinting in your eyes, the silk dress slips off like butter. Despite it being you two’s first time, you all but work together like a well-oiled machine, harmonised and synchronised. Somehow, he knows that your whine means you must want his shirt off as well. He’s generous in taking off his suit and dress pants, his belt leaves his waist with a clip before your hands take its place. You swear your mouth waters at his slim waistline, his eyes glimmer when he lays them on your breasts, spilling from behind your lingerie. 

“I’ve waited so long for you, my love,” He whispers with his nose tucked beneath your jaw, you shudder when he licks a long and teasing stripe up to your ear, your nails scratch his shoulders in tandem, a silent plea for him to do something. He hears your prayers and begins to make his way towards your clothed heat, you’re embarrassed as he looks at you directly when he kisses your clit. His fingers go up to your hips before sliding your panties off at a terrifically slow pace.

Bakugou thinks he’s in nirvana when he sees your wetness clinging to the fabric, his eyes are far rolled back into his skull, he suddenly thinks he’s a man dying of thirst. The way your core glistens under the soft moonlight shining through from his windows makes him weak in the knees, “Please, Kats, I don’t need prep, I just need you,” 

He smiles when he hears you before complying. Even in your haze, you can still clearly recognise the wet spot on his underwear, his boxers seem uncomfortably tight, but you’re not in a much better state, when his cologne drowns you in his bed, you think you’re in limbo. 

Katsuki’s body must be shaped by the Greek sculptors, you think. His abdominal muscles are nothing short of a breathtaking sight, he chuckles when he hears your sharp intake of breath. The way his fingers slip into your wet cunt earns you a place in hell, but you feel like you’re in heaven when you see him wrap his digits, coated with you, around his cock, pumping up and down until his pink tip is leaking and waiting. He’s out of breath before you even begin. 

“Fuck, baby, you ready? ‘Cause I can’t wait anymore,” Your nods are overzealous, but his chuckles are cut short when his tip slowly pushes past your hole and into your pussy, he’ll die happy now, he thinks, you’re nothing short of perfection. 

Your moans are sacrilegious when he sinks his entire length in, his arms are caging you in, and you’re forced to look at him, dazed and eyes lidded. It’s not long before he starts moving, and then your hands are gripping the sheets, he gets up close and personal, so he can listen to your moans right at his ear while he sucks a bruising hickey onto your neck, so that no doubt you’ll be his by the end of tonight. His pace is set fast, but it becomes erratic soon enough, “Kats–! Hnng, fuck! Baby I need you so bad, give it to me, oh god!” He grimaces once, his fingers intertwined with yours before bringing them above your head, “Don’t beg god for mercy, he won’t save you now, beg for me, scream my name instead baby,” he grins, swallowing all of your sobs of his name possessively. 

His hips snap towards yours faster and faster and you swear he's reached an undiscovered spot when he brings your legs atop his shoulders, his grunts grow in volume, he begs for you now, and you’ve never felt more powerful having Dynamight appeal for your love and mercy. “Oh, oh, love, you want me to fill you up? Pump you full with my cum, you want it, don’t you?” The grip he has on your hips is brutal and you’re sure they’ll leave a mark but you can’t be happier, you scream “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and by your third promise he’s already painting your warm walls white, he doesn’t stop for your sake, his fingers go around your clit in small but fast circles, and you’re quickly thrown over the cusp and left twitching as his cum is pushed into the deepest crevices in you before he collapses on top of you, panting, sweaty, and sweet. 

Your eyelids become heavy, threatening to close when he pulls you close to his chest, the familiar aroma of his nitroglycerin sweat mixed with his shower gels flooding your nostrils brings you comfort; you grip onto his pillow case, you’ll pretend to fall asleep, anything to keep your tears in, and dare they ever fall over your cheeks, you’ll face into the soft cushion and inhale what you can now call home. 

A leap of faith, they call it, a dive into the uncertainty of what Katsuki will bring to you.  

“Eyebrows? We need to take a shower,” He whispers while cradling your head in his calloused palms, voice soft and gentle, you don’t want to open your eyes, wishing they’ll remain shut for as long as he allows, “come on, we’ll sleep afterwards,” but with a promise that you two can spend the remainder of what is left until dawn together, when the two of you will have to suffer the violating scrutiny of the public eye once more, you follow him to the bathroom, to the edge of the Earth if he asks, because it won’t be everyday that you get to preserve this kind of unbreached privacy, the kind of seclusion spent with you tangled in his limbs and tucked beneath his sheets, safe and sound, away from the rest of the world. 

[britcision]

Where is your favorite Dragon Age place? Do you have a favorite romance?

Mine would have to be Skyhold just because all our friends are there and it's home. My spouse and I have played all the romances in Inquisition and I love them all sooooo very much that I couldn't choose a favorite and I just wish you could romance every last one of them at the same time.

*Asks are sent for fun, no pressure to answer.

@amloveabledeathmo (dunno if tumblr’s started notifying people on asks yet sooooo)

I’m a really huge fan of the Emerald Graves myself, because I am a Tree Child and crave the clambering over rocks and streams and up as many trees as will have me

(Our Lavellan doesn’t get it all from my partner he’s got some lil snippets from me 😁)

(Buuuut since Corin gets half their disabilities from me it’s not something I can do as much as I like anymore 😔)

I’m still relatively new to the series though, so the only romance I’ve seen in full is the Iron Bull… and I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be tough to beat!

We’re doing a Trevelyan/Dorian run at the moment so I can get a better fix on Séamus, but I’m most looking forward to Josephine so far 👀

Also it’s illegal that both Dorian and Bull will independently tell you they’re into threesomes and then abjectly refuse to let you romance them both at once 😤 how dare

[weshney]

DP Writing Prompt

Lich King AU

Imagine, if you will, a grand, witchcraftian circle carved into the floor of a dungeon, toxic green light crisscrossing in precise geometric patterns and inlayed with delicate, looping symbols. The air is damp and cold, the atmosphere murky and dim. A team of heros approach an alter wafting fetid smells, its top and sides dripped in flaking, dried blood. Rotting corpses shamble in from the shadows, a glowing skeleton or two quick to dart in for a strike as screams echo from a back room. A heavy door slams shut with a thunderous weight, and the shrieks abruptly cutting off. The rattling, raspy sound of worn burlap and bare feet drag lurchingly across aged stone, heralding the approach of a single mummified beast trolling a dirty, half-concious human behind. The heros surge forward, frantically trying to intervene as the teenage girl is dropped with a sickening crunch onto the raised, bloodied quart. Thinking fast, one of the heroes blasts the floor, breaking the circle. The viridecent hue that illuminates the lines fades out.

Only...the summoning continues.

And the undead start to panic.

But how?! The circle was broken! And what could make such horrifying monsters so terrified?! Was the worst yet to come? Had they royally fucked things up by destroying the circle?

"Funny you should think that. You might not have royally fucked things up," a haunting chuckle echoes about the chamber as the newly arrived Lich King taps his skeletal crown, "but I'm about to."

A smile straight from Uncanny Valley splits his lips.

Then, eyes of green coal pan across the room's occupants, instantly spotting the primed sacrifice splayed limp and ragged-breath over the alter.

The king bares his fangs and the grotesque creature that towers over her takes a half step back. Then frost creeps like timelapsed vines over stone and it quivers. One heartbeat. Two. Its composure shatters, and it pivots, sending a thick-ended saber clattering to the floor as it lunges into a four-legged sprint toward the back room.

The clawed skitters only barely just begin their scritchy click-click-click-clacks when all hell breaks loose.

Turns out, that wasn't a summoning circle. It was a warding circle. Those undead? Yeah; they weren't trying to call their king to battle. They were trying their best to keep him out. Because they knew, if he got in, he was gonna beat aaaall their asses.

(Because it fits the vibes so well and I'm still wowed by this artwork years after I first saw it, make sure to reblog @pengold 's Drow Warlock Danny!)

My take on the idea that it'd be kinda fun to see Ghost King Danny begrudgingly find out he also rules the undead. He just gets stuck with a bunch of rotting, smelly, evil subjects that he's just disgusted by and can't get rid of. And to make matters worse, they are constantly doing vile things in his name that he has to put a stop to. As far as humans know, he's all about accepting sacrifices, spreading plagues, and destroy life in general, all because of some goddamn fine print and a horde of asshole servants.

[kivaember]

Michigan's Emblem

well a passing observation had me going down a rabbit hole SO JOIN ME ON MY JOURNEY

At a glance, the emblem looks pretty cool alright? But there are some things that leap out at me:

why does ur liger have five legs, michigan

the heraldic style of the liger

the odd placement of the blade for a heraldic style

the liger's positioning

So the leg thing is interesting to me, because in heraldic style, there are three ways that an animal can be positioned: rampant, passant and statant.

(Okay actually I lie there's more than three ways, there's like eight but there's three that's the most common)

Rampant is the one people usually think of first when it comes to heraldry: the animal is standing on its hindlegs, forelegs raised in a clawing motion or reaching out.

Passant and statant, however, is when the animal is on all fours. Passant is when a front leg is held up (much like how Ligertail's fifth leg is), and statant is when all four paws/hooves/whatever are touching the ground. Examples below:

Rampant

Passant

Statant

Now Ligertail is in both Passant and Statant thanks to its five legs. This is interesting because of two things:

Statant postures are more frequent as crests than on charges on shields, which refers to their positioning on the heraldry. So, uh, crest is on the top, and charge is on the middle rightish.

A lion in passant may be called a leopard, because way back when the general rule (for English heralds) was that a passant lion was termed a leopard and a rampant lion was termed a lion.

Actually I'll be a bit more detailed: a lion in passant guardant, that is, its head facing towards the observer, is called a leopard. A lion in passant where its head is facing forwards is called a lion-leopard. (Looks at Liger... Lion-Tiger...)

In an old manuscript called de harudrie, a leopard was considered "borne of an adulterous union between a lioness and a pard" and like a mule incapable of reproducing. So a leopard was considered an appropriate charge for a person either born of adultery or someone that's forbidden to reproduce (like someone who's sworn a vow of chastity). Meanwhile lions traditionally symbolises courage, nobility, strength and valour.

OKAY so we have that quick and dirty and very simplified heraldry info out of the way (for those of you who are more au fait with heraldry feel free to chime in if i got anything wildly wrong), what does this mean for Michigan's five-legged heraldic liger?

Firstly, that it's in both passant and statant comes across as if Michigan is caught between two states, esp combined with Liger which is a Lion-Tiger hybrid. Statant is a posture usually used on crests, and a statant lion is still acknowledged as a lion, but a passant lion ends up being launched into that ambiguous realm of 'leopard' - and the whole implication of being a bastard or chaste. I wouldn't be surprised if it's Michigan making a joke. Maybe he's well-known as a bastard son of someone important, but his Hero of Jupiter title has him vaunted as a respectable figure (thus Crest) and so it's one of those 'widely known secrets no one talks about or acknowledges'.

There probably is some clever heraldic thing that the five legged liger caught between statant and passant means... let the theories flow...

Anyway, there's one other thing too: Ligertail's, er, tail. The way the tail forks and the end tapers into a sword, curled over Liger's back, sort of gives me scorpion vibes. Is it intentional? Who knows. Maybe he wanted to match with the other bug boys, or maybe he thought it looked cool. Anyways, I'm looking at that scorpion-esque tail and going hmmm.

Anyway, this was a fun deep dive. Maybe the fifth leg was just an accident and Michigan kept it because well, lol, it's funny. Or maybe there really is a deep meaning to it all hidden behing obscure heraldry rules..... or even if there isn't, I'm thinking there is one now and no one can stop me.

[nevertheless-moving]

Stormlight AU 14, where kaladin manages to hold it together oathwise in words of radiance for a few more chapters, just long enough to out himself as radiant right after prison, because of course hes gotta fly and save everyone from bridge sabotage. Immediate cascade effect of radiant reveals.

Angsting over next week after prison. Shardplate and Blade possibly put on hold "too big a decision for him to just accept right away" "I just got out of jail and need some time to think."

People think he's insane but they thought that anyway

moash would be obvious choice - best friend/fighter but he still can't decide about elhokar assassination so the shards are just in very very valuable limbo...can he make it just general bridgemen Shards? No, too much training...

Joins shattered plains expedition as per canon

when the bridge collapses again what's he gonna do? Not save everyone?

Please.

Terrified officers start gently floating back up

Tries to lash shallan but she's already full of stormlight and it doesn't work on her. Moment of shocked, glowing eye contact.

there's a whole bunch of parshendi attacking so no time for kaladin to react to shallan falling or kholins to yell at kaladin

yes no time to deal with Dalinar. Kaladin has to do Very important flying thing. Uh...oh thank the almighty there's another army for him to fly at.

You KNOW bridge four had been storming Training a whole dramatic 'Captains Luck' thing. Bunch of gem pouches thrown in the air. Parshendi shouting as kaladin repeats the arrow drawing trick (sigzil is quietly pleased that after their practice, this time he throws the shield, as opposed to taking all those hits himself)

Adolin finally tore his attention away from the sky long enough to speak, dry mouthed.

"I take it by the..." he mimed the tossing of sphere pouches.

Storms, Skar had felt stupid practicing that, but Teft had insisted. And it was absolutely worth the weeks and weeks of extra weight, watching the Captain flying now. Jezrian's breath, when had he figured out flying? Lopen had said he had just started wall walking before prison. Had he figured out flying in prison? Oh, Brightlord Adolin was still talking.

"You all knew didn't you," Adolin looked amazed. "All of Bridge Four. I mean I knew there was something but - how in the Almighty's tenth name did you all keep this a secret? For this long!"

Skar and Drehy exchanged a glance.

"May we be blunt, Brightlord," Drehy finally said, watching as Kaladin swooped down low over the Parshendi, sending a few of them tumbling over to the next plateau, unharmed. Stormfather, he really was too good for this world.

"Please," Adolin said, gesturing emphatically.

Drehy hesitated, and they exchanged another look. Skar nodded at him, agreeing to take the lead, then took a deep breath.

"How in damnation did you not know??" His voice came out louder then he intended.

But storms, he had been waiting to say that for ages!

Drehy nodded eagerly, gesturing with the hand that wasn't holding his spear. "He storming glows!"

"I mean I know you were distracted during the tower assault- "

"Distracted?" Adolin sputtered.

"For a while I genuinely thought you knew but were keeping it secret for some stupid reason," Moash added, walking up. A small crowd was gathered around, attention pulled away slightly from the glowing man above and the retreating army.

"I mean," Moash snorted. "He formed a giant storming pillar of light while we were charging. You could see us charging. He was glowing like a herald for half the tower fight. No one from your entire army noticed?"

Dalinar coughed, sheepish look at odds with the golden gloryspren that kept flickering around his head.

"I... may have noticed a faint glow," he said slowly. "When he rescued me from the Parshendi Shardbarer."

The Blackthorn shrugged helplessly, looking at Kaladin, still high above. "I thought I was hallucinating..."

Why was he still up there anyway - Oh. Right. When he came down he'd have to deal with the lighteyes. Yeah, he'd stay up there too.

Adolin let out a short laugh, the hysterical noise seeming to escape uncontrolled. "You." He pointed at his father. "You saw a radiant in real life and your first thought was this is a hallucination."

Dalinar sighed. "I had hit my head. Quite a few times. It seemed more reasonable."

Adolin stared at his father, then laughed again. "You-" he couldn't get the words out over the chuckles. "Hallucinating-"

Adolin wiped his eyes, looking around. "Shallan would have something more witty, hold on."

He frowned, looking at the men who had been pulled from the chasm. They still glowed softly. Most looked shellshocked, and were holding something heavy. One of them was grinning, looking amazed as he waved his arms, bouncing off the ground, tethered by a bemused comrade.

"Where's Shallan?" He looked around more frantically, then ran to the Chasm's edge.

Skar let out a groan, and he and Drehy went after him.

"I don't think I saw her come up," Drehy whispered grimly.

Skar nodded back. Oh, there was going to be fallout for that. The Captain was always inconsolable when he failed to save someone, nevermind how many miracles he performed first - a bunch of lighteyes yelling at him was not going to help.

The Captain finally came back down, touching down at the chasm's edge just before Adolin arrived. Behind, he could hear Teft gruffly setting up a perimeter to keep onlookers back. The Highprince and the Queen's Mother pushed through of course, Renarin trailing behind. Storm's he hadn't even realized Renarin was there. Had he been running with the bridgecrew?

Skar's skin prickled as it usually did when he realized how outclassed he was was by the lighteyes around him. Almighty, the Captain most of all. He suppressed a small sigh of relief as Kaladin's eyes faded from a glowing whiteblue back to brown. He looked impassive at the Kholins.

Dalinar stepped up, opening his mouth to speak. A golden sphere spun to existence around him once more.

Kaladin turned to face him, hair streaming behind, looking for all the world like a Herald of Old, even without the glow.

Adolin interrupted. "Shallan," he said quietly, desperately. "She was on the bridge - please, I can't find her."

The Captain frowned and Skar's heart sank.

"I tried to grab her," Kaladin said slowly. "Lash her upwards. Everyone was falling too fast for me to do more....more than touch a hand to them."

"I'm sure you did everything you could," Dalinar said gravely, putting a hand on Adolin's shoulder. "I'm sorry son."

Adolin stumbled back, looking nauseous.

Kaladin shook his head. "No, you don't understand. It didn't work. She...I had to reach for another man who was about to hit a wall, but I think she was glowing. That she had already taken in Stormlight."

Adolin's head snapped up, eyes full of hope.

Kaladin shrugged. "If she's like me then...she's fine. It took me ages to figure out wallrunning, so I should still go get her."

He paused, looking off at air like he sometimes did. "Actually... I don't think most of the, uh, other orders could do the wallrunning and flying. So she's probably alright, I just need to go down and rescue her."

"What are you waiting for then?" Adolin asked eagerly.

"Son," Dalinar reprimanded. "More respectfully, please."

Adolin and Kaladin rolled their eyes in unison.

"He's still the same person," Adolin muttered. "I knew there was something strange about him."

Kaladin scoffed. "Yeah. You were right on my trail. Knew all about 'my thing with the stuff.'"

The prince brightened visibly. "And I was right! That's why you didn't want the Shardplate and Blade! You've already got your own? Or...do you have to earn it a certain way?"

Renarin sucked in a breath behind him. Skar glanced over, and saw the strange Brightlord's eyes wide with...realization, maybe? He was pretty hard to read.

The Captain, amazingly, smiled. "Something like that, princeling."

Adolin beamed, than smacked his hand to his face. "Thing... with the stuff! You need stormlight, don't you?"

He fumbled under his armor, before pulling out a small fortune in reserve Sapphire's in a pouch, tossing them.

Kaladin caught the bag, looking inside with a snort. "Well, this takes me back to how we met."

"What?"

"Nevermind. Doesn't matter."

The Captain still stood there, not breathing in, hesitating.

"Soldier?" Dalinar said. "Is there...some reason you don't want to rescue Brightlady Devar? The...other radiant?"

Kaladin let out a deep breath. "I...realize I've also been hiding my powers, so I don't have much ground for accusation. But I've suspected for sometime that she...might not be who she says she is. That she's dangerous."

Prince Adolin frowned, expression darkening as he crossed his arms. "We can figure that out once she's safe from the chasm. Now breathe in that bag and rescue my fiancee," he ordered. He hesitated, then blushed. "Please."

Kaladin sighed, then took in a deep breath, silvery white mist leaving the gems and filling the Captain with holy light. Awespren sprung up around them, and Skar knew that a few of them were his own. There were some things that you just didn't get used to.

With a salute, Kaladin stepped off the ledge, falling in a glowing streak of light. More awespren burst to life, but Skar just rolled his eyes. There were some things that you could get used to, and your commanding officer being a dramatic bastard was one of them.

continued here. also: other stormlight aus

[anittmyer]

Alright! Here is some more angst for Daemags!!!!

(Some context first: Daeron and Maglor were able to have children through magical means due to Daeron being half Maia, their prowess in song as well. They basically sang their kids into creation. What a vibe. They have two daughters and twins boys. Since this AU Maglor doesn't swear the oath, I need hard angst to get him on on track to lonely self exile.)

'When Daeron learns of Beren's death, he is so consumed by guilt and shame that he leaves Doriath in the night, abandoning his family.'

Maglor is woken up by a herald of Thingol, telling him the king demands to speak with him. He checks his twins in their cradles before following the herald to the throneroom of Doriath. Only Thingol and Melian are present, but the queen has a sad and distant look on her face, while Thingol seemed stern and angry.

"Daeron has fled Doriath. His actions killed the man Luthien finds.. love with." The statement is clear, yet with a hint of disgust. Maglor's face turned pale and cold. His husband had abandoned them...

"Luthien won't return to Doriath if her brother's spouse resides. So. Maglor. You are to return to your brother in Himring immediately. "

The King's orders sent a cold spike through Maglor. First his husband abandons him and their children, and now he is being sent away... again... First by his father and now by his father-in-law.

Maglor bows his head trying to hide his tears from King Thingol. He must not cause trouble. He must not cause trouble.

"As you wish my King... maybe I be excused? I must prepare my children for-"

Maglor was cutoff by Thingol standing from his throne abruptly and making his way over to the Noldor elf.

"The children will not be going with you."

The words echoed in the hall. Maglor felt his heart stop and fall. His children... the elflings he'd had since he and his husband sang them into creation. All four of their children were born in a glade of purple moon flowers under Ithil. Their voices would be hoarse, but it was worth the new addition to their family.

His eldest daughter, Winyárissë (Fresh Dawn), so strong and fierce, more ready to hold a sword and bow, her love for her black steed she had raised with Maglor's help. Her black hair and light brown eyes made her out to be a beautiful raven-like nìs. His second daughter, Harmië (Treasure) a seemingly opposite to her older sister, a sweet girl and an artist. A lover of jewlery and dresses, she was a clumsy dancer but loved to dance all the same. Maglor could watch her dance forever... She was silver haired with bright grey eyes, almost as if they contained tree light. And then his twins... his two little boys... not looking like each other at all: Lahtarion (Surpasser), with his dark hair from Maglor and a singular silver streak and beautiful brown eyes from Daeron. And Luhtano (To echant), with his silver hair but two different colored eyes, one a stormy grey and the other a deep rich brown. The twins were still so young... still small enough to sleep in a cradle. And Thingol was demanding him to leave his children? All because Daeron made a stupid and rash decision!?

"B-but sire... they are my children! I-i can't just leave them! They need-"

Meglor was once more cut off by the king. His stone cold face held no sympathy.

"The children will reside in the care of Queen Melian, she will provide for them. You however must leave Doriath." Thingol looked down on the shorter elf. He felt the smallest shred of pitty for him, but his daughter came before his son's foreign bride.

"Please do not make this harder than it has to be. Gather your personal items and leave. A servant has already fetched and prepared your horse. I'm sorry but this is the way it must be."

Thingol said with his head held high. Maglor couldn't believe what was happening... Thingol had this already planned. He should have known the Doriathrim would never accept him.

"Can I at least say goodbye...?" Maglor asked, tears covered his pale cheeks and his hands shook.

. . . . .

ANNNNNDDDD I'll stop it there! I will release the entire short story on my AO3 soon! I will tag it here when I post it!

[pirunika]

last updated: 25.12.24

Tags :

#sudraws #my writing #xx #music #reference #photography #self reblog etc.

Art Blog @mandoart

A03 (being revised)

Fave LIs in no order bc why not :

Lann (Pathfinder Wrath of the Righteous)

Heinrix (Warhammer 40k Rogue Trader)

Alistair, Fenris, Blackwall (Dragon Age)

Garrus, Jaal (Mass Effect Trilogy)

Danse (Fallout 4)

Torian, Aric (Swtor)

Elliott (Stardew Valley)

Astraeus, Alain, Reiner, Nav (Lovestruck)

Liod, Andvari, Chris (Romance Club)

Asra, Julian (The Arcana)

Jumin Han, Zen (Mystic Messenger)

Lucifer, Mammon (Obey Me)

Hanzo (Nightshade)

Raze honestly all 3... (Demonheart)

Ernol, Haron (Ebon Light)

Leander (Touchstarved WIP)

Flannan (The Good People WIP)

M, A (The Wayhaven Chronicles)

Ortega, Herald, Lady Argent lol (Fallen Hero)

Hadrian (The Golden Rose)

Uly (Whiskey-Four)

Tosh, Junk (Samurai of Hyuga)

Zhu (Relics of the Lost Age)

Blade (Shepherds of Haven WIP)

Laurent (Perfumare WIP)

O, G (Infamous WIP)

Ash, Rin (Vendetta WIP)

Games I Play/ed

Dragon Raja Mobile

Sims free2play, mobile, 3, 4

Black Desert Mobile

Fate Grand Order

Cookie Run Kingdom

Vampire's Fall: Origins

Eldarya

Lovelink

MeChat

Blush Blush

Choices

Ikemen Sengoku

Samurai LBP

A Date with Death

Andromeda Six

Tailor Tales

Hollywood Red Embrace

Guild Wars 2

Slay the Princess

Fear & Hunger

Blood Moon

Tin Star

Soul Stone War

Tally Ho

I, the Forgotten One

Fields of Asphodel

Choice of the Deathless

Werewolves series

Playlists :

Astraeus (Astoria Fate's Kiss - Lovestruck)

Astoria MC (aka Eos just below)

Sails in the Fog (Romance Club)

Shepherds of Haven WIP IF

Infamous WIP IF Band

Mason (Wayhaven Chronicles)

Some main-ish OCs/MCs :

Manolya 'Mili' Rosebud Sackville (Lord of the Rings Online) #oc: mili

Gulsary (DnD Online) #oc: gulsary

Vorawin'ther Vandree 'Vora Winter' (Neverwinter/1/2, Pathfinder Wrath of the Righteous — a drow in one and dhampir in the latter) #oc: vora, #oc: vorawin'ther

Balta Granar (Elder Scrolls Online) oc: #balta

Ayka Delgerdzaya Aeducan (Dragon Age Origins) #oc: ayka

Aurora Hawke (Dragon Age 2) #oc: aurora

Talas Adaar (Dragon Age Inquisition) #oc: aysha

Sue (lol i made a self insert for Fallout New Vegas) #the courier

Anna Arslanowicz (Fallout 4) #oc: anna

Elnara 'Ellie' Seitosmanovna Krymsky (Saints Row series) #oc: ellie

'Lia' Shepard (Mass Effect trilogy) #oc: lia

Valentina 'Tina' Ryder (Mass Effect Andromeda) #oc: valentina

'Nino Balkish' (Star Wars the Old Republic, Chiss Mando Bounty Hunter) #oc: nino

Emija Prizrak (Star Wars the Old Republic, Chiss Republic Trooper) #oc: emija

Berra H'akan (Star Wars the Old Republic, Cathar Mando -by birth- Bounty Hunter) #oc: berra

Kartili Kelborn (Star Wars the Old Republic, Twi'lek Smuggler mando ) #oc: kartili

Yvadin Stagard (Star Wars the Old Republic, Twi'lek Bounty Hunter) #oc: yvadin

Lirash Paaran (Star Wars the Old Republic, Togruta Bounty Hunter) #oc: lirash

Koalcha (Star Wars the Old Republic, Chiss Imperial Agent token male oc) #oc: koalcha

Eos Eremenko surname may vary (MC of Astoria Fate's Kiss / Lost Kisses, interactive fiction (Wayhaven Chronicles, Perfumare, Shepherds of Haven, Whiskey-four etc. - i guess all of them) & Warhammer 40k Rogue Trader & my WIP interpretation of the titan goddess with the same name) #oc: eos

Ela (The Arcana, Fictif & Choices stories..etc. Some interactive fiction.) #oc: ela

Eve Mac Diarmada (Obey Me / Nightbringer, my interpretation of Eve herself!) #oc: eve

Others :

Star Wars Clan H'akan (original Mandalorian clan settled on Werda, led by Danyal H'akan - also, father of Berra ⬆️) #clan h'akan

Star Wars Clan Strillir (also my Mandalorian clan on Werda, led by Sidar Strillir) #clan strillir

ASOIAF House Dawnbreak (a semi-noble household) here

Cultist Simulator (Follower) OC here (Eos ⬆️AU really...)

My Writing :

Homecoming, gen but Lucifer being Lucifer (OBEY ME)

My Moodboards, Edits :

SHEPHERDS OF HAVEN MC TEMPLATE

SHEPHERDS OF HAVEN MC MOODBOARD

BLADE X MC MOODBOARD

BLADE X MC MOODBOARD 2

ASTRAEUS X MC MOODBOARD 1

ASTRAEUS X MC MOODBOARD 2

ALAIN RICHTER MOODBOARD